


Catnip for Crazies

by orphan_account



Series: Mistakes Worth Making [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-11
Updated: 2011-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:45:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Caring is a Mistake. John's recovery has come along nicely, in spite of the fact that Moriarty has escaped.  Moriarty begins actively pursuing John, and Sherlock panics. John, however, has had enough, and attempts to take matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is going to be M. Very, very M.

Sherlock still had nightmares about the only time he went to visit Moriarty.

He had sat down, separated from the man he hated with every fiber of his being by a simple oak table. Moriarty somehow managed to look as well groomed as ever, even in the well-worn clothes he had been provided with.

"You want to know what it was. What made me interested," Moriarty said, his expression pleasant.

"Yes," Sherlock managed to force out through his clenched teeth.

"I got to _know_ him."

Sherlock's blood froze. He'd been over John's medical report 1,827 times. An assault of that magnitude would have left visible signs, John would have mentioned it, Sherlock would have deduced it…

"Not in the Biblical sense," Jim chided, rolling his eyes. Then they darkened, and Moriarty's smiled became almost predatory. "Though that _will_ come later."

Sherlock's blood boiled now, his hands reaching forward without his permission to strangle Moriarty, to bash his head into the table over and over until the oak was stained with his blood and covered in his brain matter, to inflict any sort of pain on Moriarty so that he would suffer for what he did, suffer for what he planned to do. He stopped himself, instead channeling his anger into flinging his chair into the wall behind Moriarty and pacing furiously.

Moriarty watched, smile growing impossibly wider. "I have a theory about people. You can grow up with a man, you can live with him for years, but you won't really meet that man until he's in so much pain that he can't pretend anymore. I've found it to be incredibly accurate in the numerous trails I've conducted. I got to meet John, Sherlock. I discovered something amazing when I did – John is _exactly_ who he seems to be. With so many people that little bit of strength, of goodness is just a cover, a façade. Not John. With John, its all the boring bits, the mundane parts that come off. Watching it happen, making it happen," Moriarty's pupils had dilated, a small shudder of pleasure ran up his frame. "It was the most intense, enjoyable, erotic experience I have ever had. I _can't wait_ to do it again."

Sherlock usually woke up at this point, shivering and drenched in sweat. He would wrap himself around John, breathing him in, feeling him, pressing his lips to John's neck. Locki would curl up behind him and Asclepia would provide a reassuring weight at his feet. The three would provide him with reassuring anchors to the here and now until the shaking stopped.

Sherlock's only comfort regarding the dream came from the knowledge that he was going to kill Moriarty. He was going to meet Moriarty, using the man's own definition. They were going to get acquainted over the course of three days (in an ideal world, it would have been longer, but that was the maximum amount of time he could tolerate being away from John.)

Then Sherlock was going to kill Moriarty. Slowly.


	2. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN: I was overwhelmed by your response to the prologue. Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews. My goal is to update once a week. I would start looking for chapter 2 on Friday, or thereabouts. And this chapter went from fluffy-to-angsty in about 1500 words. Also, there is a poll up on my profile regarding a possible pairing for this fic that I'm on the fence about. Feedback, as always, is appreciated.**

"No."

"But…"

"No. You've already taught them to use the toilet, call Lestrade if one of us falls unconscious or is incapacitated in any other way, they growl if it's a sent they don't recognize at the door. Ascelpia nearly took the leg off the guy who tried to mug three weeks ago. You are not teaching them to urinate on Mycroft."

"Just Asclepia. Locki already knows."

"You already taught Locki to…no. You are not teaching my dog to piss on your brother. And don't think the skinny jeans are going to change my mind on this one. Anyway, I'm off to the A&E for my shift. And when half my patients are Mycroft's men, can you at least make sure he sends people who are actually injured? I feel like I never do anything useful."

"Mmm."

"Also, if you insist on sneaking in every day, try not to make it so obvious."

"You didn't notice yesterday."

"You were a middle-aged woman, an elderly male nurse, and the drunk in front of my window."

"Ah. You did notice. Well then, either my disguises are getting worse or your observational skills are getting better."

John pulled on his coat. "Regardless, you'd best not show up today. You're supposed to be taking Asclepia to the vet. I'll be home tomorrow morning. Call me if there's a case."

Sherlock watched John walk out, fighting against the urge to sprint after him, to pull him close and never let him go. It had been six months since Sherlock had almost lost his heart, almost los his John. Three months since Moriarty had broken out of prison. Two months since John had made it painfully clear that he was not going to tolerate being locked up, even if it was for his own protection.

In other words, Sherlock was losing his mind. Three months of constant, physically painful anxiety. He refused to let John out of his sight. He wasn't sleeping, wasn't eating, and had used so many nicotine patches at once that John had binned his entire stash.

Three months. Three months and _nothing_ from Moriarty. He was still active on an international scale, but there had been no new crimes, no moves on John. Part of him fervently hoped he has gotten bored, has forgotten and moved on. The rest of him knew the odds of that occurring were depressingly minimal.

Sherlock, deciding that a sufficient amount of time had passed for John to no longer be watching the door, set out after his doctor. John really _was_ getting better. He was spotting Sherlock one in three times now, and he nearly caught Sherlock an average of seven times on his way to and from work. The detective found it reassuring – anyone without his intellect and skills would have trouble getting a drop on _his_ doctor.

John took a different route to work every day, and had a habit of doubling back on himself and ducking into alleys. John had come to view London as a battlefield and had begun treating it as such. Sherlock was torn between being impressed and apprehensive as John, seemingly sensing he was being followed, climbed a fire escape and took to the rooftops.

On the one hand, if Sherlock was having trouble keeping track of him, so would anyone else attempting to tail him. On the other, if Sherlock couldn't keep up with him, he might lose him again. If Sherlock couldn't keep up, how were Mycroft's men supposed to make sure nothing happened to him?

Sherlock, as he had been doing ever since John returned to work, screened John's patients. It would be far too easy for Moriarty to have someone masquerade as a patient and hurt John that way. He tried to make John's cases mildly interesting, but no anyone who was in mortal danger. John's psychological condition was fragile enough without adding guilt due to a misplaced sense of personal responsibility over the loss of a patient.

In between his constant personal surveillance of John and intensive background checks of every single individual to walk through the doors of the hospital, Sherlock did what he could to track Moriarty remotely. In depth information and background checks on students, professors, lunch workers, and custodians at Carl's school. His family, his friends, the other children at the swim meet, anyone who Carl _ever_ could have laughed at, trying to find information on Moriarty's past that would make it easier for Mycroft to locate him and his contacts in the present.

He understood Mycroft better now. The need to protect, to observe, to know the person you loved was safe no matter how he protested. His bother was, as he had told John, simply concerned. The knowledge, the empathy, made it much easier to swallow his pride and hand the majority of the work over to his brother. Mycroft was, as much as Sherlock hated to admit it, his superior in matters of deduction. He also had more resources at his disposal – his chances of dissolving Moriarty's network were much greater than Sherlock's. In return, Sherlock only shook his surveillance once a week – as a sign of thanks and understanding.

Lestrade made his way into the A&E waiting room, eyes scanning the room in a somewhat frantic manner. The DI looked tense, harried, and slightly ill. He all but ran over as soon as he spotted Sherlock typing on his laptop.

"Be subtle," Sherlock ordered. "I was specifically ordered to stay away today, and John will be very put out if he discovers I've ignored him. Again."

Lestrade didn't waste any time on small talk. "Three bodies. Violent deaths – definitely the work of the same person. But we can't find a link between the victims."

"I'll be there shortly," Sherlock responded, shutting his laptop and getting up, heading in the direction of the A&E to fetch John.

Lestrade put a restraining hand on his shoulder, shaking his head slowly. "It's…bad, Sherlock. Really bad. I don't pretend to know how this works, but John might…"

"John is _fine_. Unless someone shoves something unexpectedly into his back, or manages to accidentally yank his hair hard enough to pull it out at the roots, he will always be fine. If you want me to take a look, he's coming. You know that, or you would have gone straight to the flat instead of coming here," Sherlock snapped.

Sherlock stormed into the A&E, grabbed John and threw his coat at him, avoiding whatever unsolicited advice Lestrade had been about to offer.

"Sherlock, I was in the middle of treating a patient…" John protested wearily as Sherlock manhandled him into his jacket, albeit more carefully than he once would have.

"Serial killer. Police need the link between the bodies. And you patient is fine. Well…she won't be very pleased with her husband in approximately eight months, but her digestive issues are the simple result of the parasite now residing in her uterus."

Sherlock accepted Lestrade's offer for a ride. The uncomfortable memories of incarceration paled next to his fear of putting his life and John's safety in the hands of a stranger, especially one who drove a cab. He knew that his paranoia was bordering on the ridiculous, but it was perfectly justifiable. If you _knew_ you were being watched-if you _knew_ someone was actively attempting to kidnap the most important person in your life-it was perfectly reasonable to be paranoid.

The grim, nauseated faces of the police told Sherlock exactly how gruesome the scene would be. He worked with these people on a fairly consistent basis and it took a great deal of violence in a crime to affect them.

John realized it before Sherlock did. "This is where I was grabbed. Three mutilated bodies are found _today_ on the street where he kidnapped me…"

Sherlock's body froze, panic locking him in place. "A coincidence. It could be a coincidence," he insisted, his voice flat. He was grasping at straws and he knew it, but his brain simply refused to follow the data through to its logical conclusion.

"You don't think so," John replied before ducking under the crime scene tape.

"No, I don't," Sherlock muttered to himself before following.

The three bodies were…distressing. Acid to the face, limbs lobbed off, chest and abdomen covered with cuts, stabs, and lashes. There was no wound that had been fatal-rather, they had all bleed to death.

"According to forensics, they all died three to six months ago, but not at the same time," Lestrade offered.

"Obviously," Sherlock said scathingly, turning the bodies over one by one to examine their backs while Lestrade told him more about the victims.

"We had to use dental records to identify them. The man is Stephen Hollis. The younger woman is Eliza Wallingford, and the older is Mary Morstan."

Sherlock's head whipped around sharply as he heard John's wordless grunt of pain. John looked stricken – all the color had drained from his face, he was shaking so hard he appeared to be vibrating, and his breaths were rapid and shallow. Sherlock was at his side in seconds, just in time to pull his scarf aside as John bent over at retched.

"I told you it was bad," Lestrade offered sympathetically.

"He was fine with the bodies. John is a _war veteran_. He has seen corpses in conditions you couldn't imagine. It isn't the bodies," Sherlock hissed. "He didn't react negatively until you said the _names_. John knew all those people, obviously."

Lestrade's eyes widened. "Bloody hell. How?"

"Eliza use to steal my lunch money when we were in third form. Stephen called me a faggot all throughout secondary school, then tried to kiss me in the locker room when no one was around. Mary…I was going to marry her. We were engaged, but she cheated on me. It was part of the reason I enlisted," John managed to force out eventually despite his inability to exhale properly.

His gazed locked on something behind Sherlock, and he stumbled as if struck. "My fault. Good Lord, this is my fault," John rasped out. "He did this. It's supposed to be a fucking _present_ ," John said weakly, gesturing at the victim's backs.

Sherlock turned around, eyes focusing on the bodies, specifically their backs. Cigarette burns and small cuts arranged in a meticulous pattern. Dashes and dots.

Sherlock turned back to the doctor, grasping John's face firmly, turning his partner so his back was to the bodies and tilted his face up so Sherlock could check the dilation of John's pupils. The consulting detective ignored Lestrade's ramblings and ordered the man to go find a shock blanket, getting the DI out of the way.

"John. John, look at me. I'm here. I'm right here. _Look at me_. No, not at my right temple. Look me in the eyes. Good. This is not your fault. This isn't because of you, this is because he is an insane psychopath. If you think you are responsible, then you are an idiot. Do you hear me? An idiot of monumental, Anderson-like proportions."

John let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh under other circumstances. "Well, we can't have that, can we?"

"Precisely," Sherlock agreed, snatching the shock blanket from the returned Lestrade and wrapping in carefully around John's shoulders. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to hold John close, wrap his arms around him and just breathe him in. He knew from experience that this didn't go over well – John had broken his nose once.

Sherlock whipped out his phone, firing off a quick text that simply read "EMERGENCY."

"I'm taking you to see Dr. Canterbury. No arguments," he admonished without looking up from his phone. "Mycroft is sweeping the area, but I doubt he'll find anything. Someone should meet us at Canterbury's office with the dogs. I need to talk to Lestrade for a moment before we leave. Are you alright?"

"Fine. I'm fine."

"Liar." A pause. "May I kiss you now?"

John took three deep breaths, and then nodded. Sherlock pressed his lips gently to John's wrapping an arm around John's hips, well below the area of his back where the brand was, and uses his other had to cup John's face. Sherlock kept the kiss relatively tame at first, gauging John's reaction to make sure this was acceptable. When he was convinced John was comfortable, Sherlock pulled John as close as was physically possible and kissed him like the world would end if they stopped.

John pulled away after about a minute. "Better?" he asked, clearly having understood Sherlock's desperation.

"A little," Sherlock murmured against John's forehead.

"Go talk to Lestrade. I need to get out of here," John told him, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's cheek and briefly pulling him even closer before releasing him completely.

The DI, face tight with anxiety, looked at Sherlock before asking the inevitable question. "It's him?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied darkly.

"And this is for John?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded, his hands shaking with barely suppressed rage and fear.

"You're sure?"

"Look at their backs. Dashes and dots" Sherlock gestured at the marks in question. "Morse code. One word per body."

"What's the message?" Lestrade asked reluctantly.

"'Happy Anniversary Johnny'."


	3. Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN:I outlined the fic, and it looks as if its going to be about 12 chapters and an epilogue. Also, _dark as fucking hell._ Like, I'm actually afraid to be alone with my subconscious and muse after writing the outline. Because I think Jim is my muse now, which I find slightly terrifying.**

**AN:I outlined the fic, and it looks as if its going to be about 12 chapters and an epilogue. Also, _dark as fucking hell._ Like, I'm actually afraid to be alone with my subconscious and muse after writing the outline. Because I think Jim is my muse now, which I find slightly terrifying.**

 **This chapter is unbetaed, and it's 1:15 AM here, so I apologize for any errors, especially those of the egregious variety.**

* * *

Asclepia broke free of her lead as soon as she saw John, and Locki shook off his to follow her. She bound over, her stump of a tail wagging so hard it seemed to shake her whole body. One leap and she managed to plant her paws on John's chest, licking his face in her form of a greeting.

"Hey! Down. Asclepia, down!" John ordered, letting out a weak chuckle. She dismounted and then sat at John's heel, unable to resist licking his hand.

Locki, sensing the unease of both his owners, began doing what Border Collies did best - he herded. He circled around legs and nudged those who began to deviate from his idea of order sharply with his nose, nearly tripping both men on more than one occasion, even whining anxiously whenever anyone strayed from the herd he had created. Ascelpia dealt with the tension by growling at anyone who came near and nipping at Locki when she felt he became too annoying.

They reached Dr. Canterbury's office about five minutes after they'd gotten the dogs. Sherlock steered John to the couch in the waiting room.

"I'm going to leave you here with Asclepia and Locki so I can ensure that Dr. Canterbury received my message and has rescheduled her current appointment and cleared the remainder of her day. Then I am coming back out and we are both going into her office. You are going to tell her what happened, she is going to explain you are a moron, and then we are going to have a long conversation about appropriate reactionary care and security measures."

Sherlock said a phrase in French and Asclepia gave a short yip in response. Another, different phrase had Locki sitting by the door with his ears pricked up at attention. Sherlock turned around, entering Dr. Canterbury's office without knocking before John had the chance to ask him what he'd trained the dogs to do _now_.

Asclepia climbed into John's lap, which was much more uncomfortable than it had been now that she was almost fully grown. John wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her fur, and tried not to think about the crime scene.

He failed.

Eliza and Stephen...he hadn't thought about them in _years_. Now they were dead. Not just dead - murdered and mutilated. Eliza's injuries would have been the least painful, and Stephen's had been more painful than Eliza's, but certainly not the worst. It seemed He had punished them according to the severity of the crime.

The one image he had been fighting valiantly to keep at bay flooded into his mind. Mary. Oh, God, Mary. She had been beautiful and witty and John had loved her, even if it had been years ago. His brain refused to reconcile the image of the laughing blonde in his memory with the battered, mutilated corpse from the crime scene. That the transformation had occurred because of him...

John cried into Asclepia's fur, attempting to keep quiet. It would be hard enough for Sherlock to focus on capturing Moriarty and eliminating his network when he felt John was in danger without the added burden of concern over his mental state. John was also self-aware enough to admit it was a matter of pride -he didn't want anyone to see him like this.

The sound of the door opening was all the warning John had. There was a heavy sigh, followed by footfalls and a slight dip as Sherlock settled on the couch.

" _Idiot,_ " he whispered compassionately but emphatically.

Sherlock removed John's hands from Asclepia and coaxed him upright. His long, calloused fingers gently brushed away the tear tracks as he pressed a tender kiss to John's forehead. John let Sherlock pull him close, taking deep breathes and trying to quiet himself.

"This shirt probably costs more than my entire wardrobe put together, and I'm ruining it," John managed between sobs as he began to calm down.

"Nonsense. The addition of your genetic material only increases its value."

John heard another set of footsteps. "Ah. Well, I can see why Sherlock texted. We can take as long as you need, John. I thought this might be an issue - the only appointment I had today was with a grad student regarding a thesis on conditioning and he was very understanding."

John froze mid-inhale, suddenly unable to breathe. _We'll start with conditioning, I think. It isn't fair for me to be the only one who's enjoying myself_.

"What was his thesis?" John demanded.

"He had some interesting questions regarding the feasibility of teaching an organism masochistic tendencies. His main concern was how to overcome the fact that pain is usually used in a negative capacity," Dr. Canterbury replied, clearly confused by John's vehemence.

As well she should be - John hadn't told Dr. Canterbury _or_ Sherlock about that conversation.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he studied John's expression intently. "I'm going to need access to your computer," he told Dr. Canterbury. "It's now part of an ongoing SOCA investigation. And you and I," Sherlock turned to John again "are going to have a long, in depth conversation about trying to protect me from knowledge of any sort, especially knowledge about your _emotional well-being and safety_. I will guarantee right now that portions of it will held at extremely high volume, and I might throw a breakable item at the wall, perhaps in the general vicinity of your head, because this is hard enough without not knowing," Sherlock shouted. "This is already too hard," he murmured, letting his head fall forward onto John's shoulder.

"You're not getting my computer, Sherlock. There are confidential patient files on there that are more important that any SOCA case could be." Dr. Canterbury's voice was hard and unyielding.

"No. What are on there are emails. That grad student you've been emailing is a psychopathic, criminally insane genius. That organism he wants to learn masochistic tendencies? That organism is _John_. Those emails are from the man who killed and mutilated three corpses as _an anniversary present_. Those emails are from Moriarty and I will use every resource at my disposal to gain access to them, regardless of consequences."

Dr. Canterbury said nothing as she allowed the information to sink in. "I'll relocate the client files and give you the laptop I opened the emails on in addition to my password once I've erased everything confidential. Is that acceptable?"

"It's adequate," Sherlock allowed.

"Good. You," she said, pointing at John suddenly. "In here now. I have notions of responsibility to disabuse you of and guilt to eliminate, if I understood everything Sherlock just threw at me correctly."

Between Dr. Canterbury's reasonable, compassionate arguments and Sherlock's bitingly logical points and insults (undermined by the fact that he refused to let go of John and would kiss the back of his head, neck, and shoulders at random intervals), John had slowly moved from the "Good God, this is all my fault" to "Yes, I understand that logically I had nothing to do with this, but that doesn't make me feel any less guilty or sick" and now seemed to be stalled between "I see your point and I may be staring to come around a bit" and "The next person to mention that I'm not responsible will get punched in the face, because I want to feel like shit about this for a bit longer, thank you."

Then they moved on to Sherlock's promised conversation and things got a bit…heated.

"You're having enough trouble focusing as it is. You're the only one who has a prayer of stopping him. Telling you these things isn't going to help. It's going to distract you and keeping you from eliminating the issues at their source!" John shouted.

"The fact that you could be keeping information from me would drive me to distraction far faster than anything you could tell me. How I choose to expend my mental capacities and where to focus my efforts is not up to you. It is my choice to make, and I deserve to be the one to make it!"

"You didn't let me make my choice," John whispered, his voice hard and dangerously soft.

"What?"

"At the warehouse. You made my decision for me. It could all have ended there. Did it ever occur to you that I would rather die than go through with what he had planned?"

Silence.

"Did it ever occur to you that I would rather die than deal with being the object of his obsession? Would rather die than watch you turn into what you fight against every day because of me? That scared me Sherlock. Out of that entire experience, you know what give me more nightmares than anything else? _You_. I could be dead, and you know what? It would be fine. Because you'd be stopping him. You'd still be alive. But you, doing what he does? The two of you could never be stopped. That's what I have nightmares about, Sherlock. You and him, working together. _Because of me_."

"Wrong," Sherlock muttered darkly from the other side of the room. "If you died, I'd be hunting him, true. He'd be gone within a week. But I wouldn't be alive. And the second he was dead, I'd follow you."

John could hear the promise in his voice, and tabled the issue for discussion at a later date. One problem at a time.

"I am selfish. I am self centered. What I need has always come first. What I need now, more than I have ever needed _anything_ is you. _You_. He had you and he was going to take you – I would not lose you, not if there was anything I could do to prevent it. That was my choice."

"If anything like that _ever_ happens again, you give me the gun. My life, my choice. _My decision_. You will stop whatever the hell it is you've been doing at the hospital. You will not try to force me into staying locked up for my own protection, or take _any steps at all_ regarding my safety without my consent. We will discuss measures you want to take _before_ you implement them. Or so help me…"John took a deep breath, trying to reign in his temper. "I need to control my own life. After what happened…I need to be in control. Can you understand that?"

Sherlock closed the distance between them in a single stride, wrapping his arms around John and holding him close. John didn't want to fight, not in the middle of all of this, but it had to be said. Sherlock had to understand, or they wouldn't make it.

"Yes. Yes, I can understand that. Your life, your choice. Fine," Sherlock angled John's head up so they could see each other's faces. John thought his grey eyes looked serious as he continued. "What you have to protect is very precious, and I would only trust you to take care of it. Be careful with my heart," he pleaded before pulling John in for a long kiss.

Being terrified followed shortly by a fight of epic proportions meant that emotions were running high when the group returned 221 B. So high, in fact, that Sherlock forgot the usual inhibitions he had around the dogs, and they made it no farther than the couch. It wasn't ideal, but given that the only other realistic option had been the floor, John wasn't complaining. Skin sticking to leather was always preferable to rug burn.

Afterwards, John locked himself in the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. He needed time, needed space away from everything. He needed a place where it was okay to think or not think as he saw fit without being reminded in some way or another every four seconds. John needed a place where he would be totally unaware if tears started falling.

Dressed in clean clothes, feeling refreshed and clean, it was easy to settle in his chair with the paper from that morning and pretend that the majority of the day had never happened. Pretend it was just a normal day, before The Game, where he and Sherlock had just had a fantastic afternoon delight. Sherlock was in the other room, and it was easy to imagine he was yelling at Mycroft about being an interfering bastard instead of what they were talking about. John settled into his illusion with a small smile on his face. All that was missing was a cup of tea.

His phone rang, the caller ID proudly displaying "Harry," and a very large part of him was tempted to ignore it. But, since today had already been awful, John might as well go for broke.

"Hello?" he said wearily.

"Hi, Johnny boy!"


	4. Hypocrisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: John being an idiot? I can't say much more w/o spoiling the chapter.

Sherlock shut his phone and rested his head against the wall, fighting the urge to vent his frustrations by putting his fist through it. He would do more damage to his hand than to the wall, and John wouldn't appreciate either.

The CCTV footage for the street had been interrupted; Mycroft's sweeps had proved fruitless. Forensics, even when dealt with by the most competent workers the world had to offer, found nothing that was of use.

Sherlock stilled when he heard John's voice. It was clear he was angry, perhaps a bit frightened, but fighting to keep himself in control. The fear was most likely the result of the day thus far-Sherlock himself was terrified. The anger, however, was a different matter.

"It was…unique."

Anger in addition to non-offensive language, his desperate attempts to stay in complete control…someone John disliked, but didn't want to offend or anger. Most likely family. John wasn't close to any of his relations other than his immediate family, and he was on good terms with both his parents. Harry, then.

"What do you want?" John forced out between gritted teeth. Sherlock could see that John was beginning to lose what little control he had managed to muster.

After the confrontation at Dr. Canterbury's office, Sherlock felt that his preferred method of dealing with Harry's adverse impact upon John's mental health (namely stealing John's phone from his hand, insulting her about her inability to get her life together and her parasitic nature, then hanging up) would not go over well today. But Sherlock needed to be doing _something_ – there was too much inside his head, too many emotions coursing through his body.

"Well, you've said hello. Are we done now?"

Sherlock sunk into his chair across from John, removing his violin from its case and tuning it as quietly as he could manage.

"No. Not going to happen. Ever."

The E was a little flat.

" _Fine!_ Alright, fine. I'll do it. Just _stop_."

Too far. It was sharp now.

"I guess I'll be seeing you."

There it was. Perfect.

"One last thing – _fuck you_."

Whatever Harriet had said in response must have been impressive, since John looked absolutely irate and slightly ill. John slammed his phone shut and flung it across the room where it hit the face spray-painted on the wall with an audible crack before falling to the floor. John took a deep breath, resting his elbows on his thighs and burying his hands in his hair.

"Alright?"

"I need a minute. And a cup of tea."

Sherlock leapt to his feet. "I'll make it."

"No!" John barked suddenly.

Sherlock stared at him, trying to comprehend the thought process behind the sudden outburst.

"Sorry, I'm just..." he trailed off, making a frustrated gesture. "What I meant was, I would like to be the one to make the tea. I find the routine soothing, and I think I could do with a bit of normalcy at the moment."

Sherlock could understand that. Nothing had been "normal" for months. Well, their version of normal. Besides, it would give Sherlock time to formulate logical, persuasive arguments in favor of Sherlock's desired additions to John's security and modifications to his routine. Given John's tenacious nature, the best approach would be to begin with measures he knew John would never consent to, allowing the ones Sherlock had deemed necessary to seem reasonable instead of excessive.

Proposing a Global Positioning System implant would be a good place to start. Sherlock had considered it seriously for a brief span of time, but it would be child's play for Moriarty to hack the signal, and the idea had been discarded. John, however, need not be privy to that information during the negotiations.

The one condition upon which Sherlock would refuse to make any stipulations was his presence. Sherlock and John would be together, within arms reach of one other _at all times_. Full stop. The matter could be discussed after Moriarty had been disposed of, but no sooner.

Additional security personnel were a must. A "panic button" of sorts would not go amiss. John was to have his gun and at least two clips with him at all times. Sherlock would instruct him in lock picking and educate him in the most efficient ways to escape from various types of restraints. Given John's army training and based on Sherlock's own observations, the doctor would need no additional preparation for unarmed combat. John would have to cut ties with all his associates – there was no telling who Moriarty would be watching, who he might be able to manipulate...

Sherlock was dragged out of his thoughts when John placed a warm mug of tea in his hands before lowering himself carefully into his own chair. Sherlock sipped absentmindedly at his tea, trying to decide on the best way to broach the subject and the order in which his suggestions should be proposed for the optimum outcome. His lip curled as he swallowed, and he glanced down at his tea in surprise. It was a slightly different shade than usual, but there was nothing obviously responsible for the difference in taste. He shot John a sharp look as he took another sip, trying to classify what was wrong.

"Whoever Mycroft has doing the shopping bought the wrong brand," John offered, shrugging his shoulders. "It isn't _that_ different."

Sherlock raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Clearly even my taste-buds are superior to yours in observation."

John chuckled, but there was no emotion behind it, and his smile didn't reach his eyes. He looked hollow, drained. For John, who was usually so full of life and emotion, to look so empty – Sherlock found it frightening.

"I love you," John said suddenly. "I know you've heard it before, and even if you hadn't you could deduce it six was to Sunday, but I needed to say it again and I thought you needed to hear it. So, I love you."

Something about this was wrong. The desperation in John's voice, the expression on his face, the ridged way he was holding himself in his chair – for the life of him, Sherlock couldn't understand _what_ or _why_. It felt like his brain was only running at half speed.

"Also, in light of the conversation we had at Dr. Canterbury's office, I fully acknowledge the fact that I am a hypocrite of the highest possible degree. I would like to pretend it's me protecting me my own right to chose, and that is a large part of why I'm doing it, but I know the excuse doesn't really hold water. Given the situation, I don't really give a fuck." There was a long pause, during which John studied Sherlock's face. "Good Lord, Sherlock. What exactly did you used to do recreationally? Most people would have been out ages ago."

Through the fuzz engulfing his mind, Sherlock finally managed to put all the pieces together. "You drugged my tea."

"Yes. Do you want me to help you to the sofa? There's a chance you'll end up on the floor if you stay in the chair."

"That wasn't Harry on the phone."

"No, it wasn't."

Now that his mind was on the correct track, it didn't take him too muck longer to arrive at the logical conclusion.

"You complete ignoramus!" Sherlock tried to shout, but it was more than his tongue could handle at the moment. Something simpler then. "You… _stupid_ …"

John kissed him, and it was hard and long and desperate and felt goodbye. It made Sherlock feel ill.

"I love you," he whispered in Sherlock's ear as the consulting detective fought to keep his eyes open.

The last thing he saw his heart walking out the door before the drug coursing through his system won the battle currently being waged within his body,.  


* * *

  
As soon as Sherlock's eyes opened, he lurched forward, trying to force his legs, shaking like a newborn colts, to support his weight. Today, of all days, his body and brain were truly disconnected, and it was only the convenient location of the mantle that kept him from falling to the floor. The indistinct, fuzzy sounds in the background began to become clearer as Sherlock's neurons began firing in the proper sequence.

"…happened? Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

"I'm going to kill him. I'm going to shot him in the head with his own gun."

"Moriarty?" a familiar voice asked.

"Oh. Yes, him too," Sherlock replied as the figure in front of him swam into focus. "Lestrade? What are you doing here?"

"The dogs called me." Lestrade's expression turned incredulous as he realized exactly what it was he had just said whist completely serious. He shook it off fairly quickly. "Sherlock, what the _hell_ happened?"  
Sherlock shoved himself off the mantle, trying to force his body upright. He failed again, falling to the floor.

"Lestrade," he mumbled into the hardwood, "pass me my mobile."

"Not until you explain what happened. And where is John?"

"Off meeting his psychopathic, murdering stalker, I assume. There aren't many other plausible scenarios where he would go so far as to _drug me_ to prevent me from following him." _That's what I have nightmares about, Sherlock. You and him, working together. **Because of me**_ "Now, pass. Me. My. Phone," Sherlock demanded, lifting his head just enough for Lestrade to see his countenance.

Sherlock had no idea what his expression was, but he knew, if it echoed even a fraction of the chaos in his head, it would motivate the DI into cooperation.

Sherlock put his almost fully rebooted brain to work. John was clever; there was no possibility that he hadn't understood exactly what agreeing to meet with Moriarty would entail. Given his reactions to his first encounter with Moriarty, even six months later, Sherlock knew that John would happily detach his own limbs to avoid repeating the experience.

John was also an altruistic idiot of awe-inspiring proportions. _"There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives. Don't you care about them at all?"_ John Watson was a doctor who saved others, had been a soldier who risked life and limb for the security of others. He valued the safety of strangers above his own well being. Sherlock knew this, had seen it on countless occasions. Moriarty knew it too.

Sherlock went through the conversation he had heard, trying to extrapolate exactly what had occurred.

" _No. Not going to happen. Ever._ " Moriarty had requested to meet with John in person. John had judiciously refused. " _ **Fine!** Alright, fine. I'll do it. Just **stop**._ " There had been some form of pressure applied that John had felt left him no choice in the matter. Given what he knew of John's character, the logical conclusion was that Moriarty had taken a hostage who he had either promised to release, or, more likely, cease torturing in exchange for a face-to-face encounter.

Sherlock was brought back to physical awareness by a wet sensation and a slight pressure on his hand. Locki had licked his palm and was now staring up at Sherlock forlornly. His ears were down, his tail was between his legs, and there was a low wine in his throat. Ascelpia on the other hand was growling, the tips of her teeth visible as she glared at Sherlock accusingly, her brown eyes demanding _how could you let him go? How could you let him leave without us?_

Sherlock turned away from the Doberman's censorious stare as Lestrade handed him his phone. Sherlock, as a general rule, didn't swear. He found it unimaginative and thought it a sign of deficient intelligence. When he took the mobile from the DI and saw that it had been three-quarters of an hour since John left, Sherlock uttered every expletive he knew and invented several, then went through each of them in every language in which he was even mildly proficient. He placed the call to his brother, wishing he could move so he could attempt to dispel any portion of the frantic energy eating him from the inside.

"John is gone and managed to destroy his phone before leaving. I need you to tell me the last number that called his phone and trace the location of the caller," Sherlock demanded, his tongue almost unable to keep up with his words.

To his credit, Mycroft didn't ask any stupid questions that would slow down the process. "Harriet Watson's number would have showed on the caller ID."

Sherlock let his head fall to the floor in frustration. Of course. Of _course_ it was Harriet. It was _always_ Harriet.

"But as Harriet Watson is currently in the process of drinking herself to death under the supervision of one of my teams, I doubt she was the one who made the call."

Sherlock swore. Again. It was one thing to risk it all for a family member, but for a complete stranger…Sherlock needed to invent, new stronger words just to describe how _stupid_ it was.

Sherlock hung up his mobile and tossed it across the floor in frustration, then forced himself to his feet again. He wobbled dangerously, and his head felt like it was attempting to simulate gravity in space, but he managed to keep his legs under him. Sherlock could recover just as quickly while he was "doing legwork" at Mycroft called it as he could sitting useless on the couch whilst Moriarty had John.

"You can stay here, or you can follow me, but I'm leaving regardless," Sherlock told Lestrade as made his way towards the door by sheer force of will.

Asclepia gave a sudden, exultant bark, her tail wagging hard.

"You're…in no positi-agh…position to be…going…any…where," a familiar yet shaky voice admonished from the still open doorway.

Sherlock stumbled into the entryway, almost tripping on Locki and Asclepia, only to have his legs fall out from under him as went limp with relief.

Standing in the doorway, red-stained hand clamped tightly over a wound in his abdomen was Doctor John Watson.


	5. Line in the Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Moriarty and John. Together. Therefore, whump, a bit of blood play, and some attempted interactions of the non-consensual variety.

John only made it a few streets away from the flat before he lost control. He braced himself again the brick wall in a nearby alley as his stomach tried to expel contents that weren't there. His leg ached, his hip was sore, his arm was shaking uncontrollably, and he _couldn't breath_

What was he doing? He'd just _drugged_ Sherlock. _Drugged him._ Violated his trust in the most extreme way possible after Sherlock has proved he was willing to compromise. And why had he done it? Why had he jeopardized his relationship with the man he loved, the only thing that had kept him functioning since had started? So he could walk unhindered into the arms of a man who enjoyed hurting him and had become obsessed with doing so.

Moriarty didn't just want to hurt him though. He wanted to make John want to hurt. He wanted to…to…

 _"One last thing – **fuck you**."_

"Oh no, Johnny. I'm going to be the one doing the fucking. I've been looking forward to it."

John expelled a mouthful of bile. He didn't have to do this. He could turn around, go back to Baker Street. He could help bring Sherlock around and then beg for forgiveness and let himself be locked away. John _didn't have to do this_.

 _"You won't come see me? That's very disappointing, Johnny. Well, in that case, I guess I'll just have to hope Mike can keep me entertained. For such a large man, he has a very high scream, doesn't he?"_

A cry of pain, followed by a long, heavy sigh.

"I had rather hoped, what with being a doctor, he'd handle the sight of blood a bit better. Do you think he'll be able to criticize my technique if I open his chest?"

John had to do this. He did. He took several deep breaths, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jumper, and then kept walking.

Despite switching cabs twice, it didn't take John nearly as long to arrive at the warehouse as he hoped it would. He didn't recognize the building itself, but he had no doubts he would recall the interior perfectly. Moriarty was feeling nostalgic – he had arranged the meeting at the warehouse were this disaster had begun.

John arrived in an all-too familiar section of the warehouse, separated from the rest of the complex by a large, reinforced door that was currently ajar. He approached cautiously, easing the door open before walking into the room.

The bed was gone, as was the table where the worst of what John had endured had occurred. The room was bare and empty, save figure in the far corner that could only be Mike Stamford. A Mike Stamford who didn't appear to be breathing.

John was beside him almost instantly. Mike was…he was in a bad way. There was a lot of blood, but most of the wounds John could see were only superficial. Mike was breathing shallowly and his pulse was sluggish enough to make John worried.

"Mike. Mike Stamford, can you hear me? Stamford, I need you to open your eyes." Nothing. John pulled his eyelids open and noted how dilated his pupils were.

Remembering his own captivity, John rolled up Mike's sleeve and swore. Track marks.

"I wasn't going to hurt him _too_ much. He introduced you and Sherlock. Without that introduction, you and I never would have met. I'm grateful, really," said a voice that sent shivers down John's spine in all the wrong ways.

"You have a funny way of showing it," John said through gritted teeth, forcing himself to stand up on legs that were doing their best to refuse to support his weight.

James Moriarty stood in the other corner of the room, between John and the door. Whatever injuries Sherlock had inflicted has long since healed, and Moriarty looked much the same as did in John's nightmares. His hair hadn't been quiet so neat, and his suit hadn't been quite so fitted, and he'd been wearing a tie last time, and he certainly hadn't been wearing cologne…

John tried not to gag as he realized Moriarty was dressed for a date.

More disturbing than his wardrobe choices was the expression on his face. Moriarty's eyes were bright, his normally pale face flush with excitement, and the smile that broke over his face was terrifying – the bared teeth of a predator who knew his prey was within his grasp and could not escape.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9a1 in your pocket, or are you just please to see me?" the psychopath practically purred.

"Neither," John said, pulling out the firearm in question and aiming it squarely between Moriarty's eyes. He wasn't quite as accurate with his right had, but his trembling left would have been an even worse bet at the moment.

Moriarty studied the gun, head cocked to the side. "Sig saucer. I do tend to get them confused. Regardless, I would put it away," he said, taking casual steps towards John that were rapidly closing the distance between them. "I may be grateful to Mike, Johnny, but don't think I won't kill him just the same."

John spared a backwards glance for Mike, only to give a small start when he felt another hand wrap around his own. He turned slowly around, fighting the tremors that were running through his entire frame.

"Give the gun to Daddy, Johnny, or someone might get hurt. We wouldn't want that to happen, would we?"

John reluctantly released his sidearm. He knew how this was going to end, and by coming here he'd already made it clear what he was willing to do to protect someone else. Moriarty smiled as he threw the gun aside, and John swallowed, trying to force down the fear that was threatening to overwhelm him.

John stood perfectly still, calling on all his army training to keep himself motionless as Moriarty circled lazily around him. John did his best not to flinch as Moriarty leaned over John's shoulder, bringing his mouth right next to John's ear.

"You can stop worrying, Johnny," he whispered, sliding a freezing hand under John's shirt to begin idly tracing the words burned into his back. "I'm not taking you yet. If I take you," he murmured, wrapping his arms around the doctor before forcing John flush against his body, "I won't be able to keep from playing with you. And I'm not ready to play the way I want yet. I need more practice," he sighed against John's neck before biting down suddenly.

John couldn't help himself. He jammed his elbow into Moriarty's solar plexus, brought his foot down on the other man's and threw his head back into the psychopath's scull. Moriarty released him, and John scrambled away, putting several feet of space between them, breathing heavily and fighting his gag reflex.

Moriarty straightened, fixing his suit and brushing off lint John couldn't see. His eyes fixed on John, and if anything he looked even more frightening than before. His expression was _hungry_ and a pale tongue traced quickly over his lips.

"Look at you," he purred. "Just _look at you_. Absolutely terrified, yet almost completely in control. Still dangerous, like a wounded, caged animal. You. Are. _Perfect_." Moriarty bent down and retrieved John's gun before firing a shot into Mike's leg. All this without turning around or changing his expression.

Stamford cried out in pain through his drug-induced sleep and his leg began bleeding, staining the concrete floor red. John clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt, and glared and Moriarty nostrils flaring and hands curled into fists.

"Your only warning, Johnny. All I'm asking for is a few minutes of your time. Surely Mike's life is worth that?" Clearly reading John's answer from the expression on his face, Moriarty beamed.

"Take your shirt off, Johnny."

John reluctantly pulled it off before throwing it on the floor.

"Lay face-down on the floor, close your eyes, and stay perfectly still."

John complied, fighting every instinct that told him to _run now_. He heard Moriarty approached slowly, felt the heat of his body as he knelt beside him, and it took every molecule of John's self control to keep himself still.

There was a rustling sound, and John felt something cold press against his skin before there was a sharp stinging sensation. John bit his tongue to keep quiet as blood ran in rivulets down his back. Moriarty's breathing had become more rapid, and John was glad he didn't have to see whatever expression was on his face.

"Turn over," he eventually ordered in a breathless, slightly husky voice.

John did, and froze when Moriarty straddled him, a bloody knife held in his hand.

Following John's gaze, the psychopath smiled. "I like knives. I always have, ever since I was little." He sunk the knife in question slowly into John's abdomen, and the world swam. He could still hear Moriarty through the haze of pain. "Do you know what profilers say about people who like knives, Johnny? They say it's a replacement for the act of sex. They say it's because the person using it is impotent. What do you think? Do you think they're right?"

He ground his hips into John, and it was impossible for the doctor not to feel the erection pressing into his skin. Moriarty removed the knife, staring at it with rapt fascination before setting it aside. He ran his fingers over the new wound, painting the word "MINE" on John's chest with his own blood. Moriarty pressed a tender kiss to the stab mark, coming back with lips stained red before he licked them clean. His pupils grew even wider, making it look as if his eyes were black.

"What do you think, Johnny? Should I show you how wrong they are? Should I prove to you just how capable I am? I want to know every inch of you in every sense. I am going to own every inch of you, leave my marks all over you, until not even Sherlock Holmes can deny you are _mine_."

Moriarty's hands rested on John's belt, and the doctor snapped. This had gone as far as he would let it. He pulled his arms out from where Moriarty had them pinned against his body, swinging a fist while simultaneously throwing all his weight to the side. He smiled in satisfaction as Moriarty's nose gave way against his fist, and John was on his feet in a matter of seconds. He found his gun on the floor and took off the safety, aiming at the psychopath on the floor at his feet.

"Let me make one thing perfectly clear, you _sick_ fuck," John said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "If you _ever_ try that again, I will _end_ you. I will kill you myself, consequences be damned."

Then John shot him in the shoulder, just to prove he was serious.

It didn't have the intended effect. Moriarty smiled, _smiled_ as the blood ran down his left shoulder, looking at the gunshot wound almost fondly. He looked up and John with his empty eyes and laughed, pleased.

"This is so much better than what I did for you. We _match_ now," Moriarty said, beaming.

John hit him over the head with the butt of his gun, smiling in vindictive satisfaction as the criminal fell to the floor.

As soon as he was sure Moriarty was down for the count, he got down on his hands and knees and retched for god only knew how long.

He eventually forced himself up on shaky legs and searched Moriarty's body as efficiently as he could, pulling out a mobile and placing a call to the police. John then dragged Stamford out of the room, ignoring his shoulder, leg, and abdomen the whole while. He turned around and dead bolted the door, vainly hoping it would be enough to contain Moriarty.

John didn't wait for the police. There was only so much he could take over the course of an hour, and he didn't want to have to relive it all over again so soon. What he wanted, no, _needed_ right now was to get out of here and go somewhere he felt safe.

Getting back to Baker Street was one of the most hellish experiences of his life. Even John could only take so much. The stairs almost did him in, but he needed to see Sherlock, needed to let his partner know that he would be fine.

"You can stay here, or you can follow me, but I'm leaving regardless!" John heard Sherlock shout at Lestrade.

John thanked whatever deity was listening that the door was still open.

"You're…in no positi-agh…position to be…going…any…where," John admonished shakily.

Sherlock stumbled around the corner, his expression one of unadulterated panic. His eyes locked on John's and the doctor watched the resolve melt out of him as he sank to the floor.

John knew that there would be hell to pay for the stunt he had pulled with the sedative, but he couldn't quiet bring himself to care. He was home.


	6. Aftermath

Lestrade was at the door within seconds, having followed the disoriented consulting detective, quickly arriving at John's side. He pulled the doctor's arm over his shoulder and wrapped his own low around John's waist. John shot him a grateful look before allowing himself to be half-dragged to the sofa.

Lestrade helped a limp Sherlock to his chair.

"What do you need?" he asked John.

"Med kit. Upstairs. Somewhere in my closet."

Lestrade nodded before bounding up the stairs.

Once Sherlock had overcome the almost crushing relief of seeing John, he began doing what he did best. John's shirt was bloodstained, but there were no cuts or tears in the fabric itself. In addition, there was not enough blood on the shirt for it to have been in contact with the wound for more than ten minutes. There was a mark on John's neck, the indents left by canines, incisors, and premolars clearly visible. Dirt and grit typical of the mixture that would be found on a concrete floor in the Northwestern part of London clung to John's trousers and his hair, meaning he'd been lying on the floor. Sherlock finally forced himself to examine the area that had the most potential for violent emotional response. John's belt was slightly askew, as if it had been undone and then refastened in a hurry.

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose, hands fisted tightly enough to drive his fingernails painfully into his palms. John, shirtless on his back in a warehouse, Moriarty hovering over him, hands resting on John's belt...

"Did he...did Moriarty..." Sherlock chocked out, unable to force out the word that signified the horrifying image in his head.

"No," John said quickly, his response to curt to be reassuring.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, cataloging the micro-expressions on John's face as he spoke. "Don't lie to be about this John. If he…" a long pause before he could coerce the words out "if Moriarty forced himself on you, that is _absolutely_ something I need to know."

John chuckled –a dark and empty sound. "He tried. I shot him."

A whole new set of problems presented itself. If John had killed Moriarty, they needed to leave _posthaste_. John needed to be somewhere safe and secluded while Sherlock called in every favor he had available and declared open war on all of Moriarty's remaining agents and contacts, destroying them before they had the chance to make an attempt on John's life. If he hadn't killed Moriarty, then Sherlock and Mycroft had a small window of opportunity in which to recapture the bête noire.

"Dead or alive?" Sherlock asked, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

"Alive." A pause, as John no doubt thought back to the event itself, his brow creased in a combination of thought and pain. "I don't know why. I should have put a bullet in his brain when I had the chance."

Lestrade re-entered, John's medical supplies in hand, and Sherlock pulled out his mobile to correspond with Mycroft while John instructed the DI in how to properly treat his injuries. Sherlock told Mycroft the little he had been able to gather since John had reappeared, but the majority of his focus was on John.

"I can stitch up the stab wound myself," he told Lestrade. "I think we'll start there, and then move on to the parts I'll need your help with."

John lifted his shirt gingerly and pulled it up over his head without removing his arms from the sleeves, exposing his chest whilst leaving his back covered.

It was only through a considerable amount of control on Sherlock's and current issues with mobility that prevented him from destroying anything when he saw John's bare chest. The "MINE" written in John's own blood like a toddler's finger painting was difficult. The stab wound itself was almost unbearable. When Sherlock spotted the press of lips, preserved in John's dried blood, he snarled.

"I take it he made it home?" Mycroft asked, interrupting the amendments Sherlock was making to his plans for Moriarty. To the untrained ear the British Government sounded calm and collected. Sherlock knew his brother well enough to hear the underlying tension. The small hint of carefully smothered anxiety touched Sherlock in a way he hadn't expected – Mycroft actually cared for John.

"A few new scars," _along with copious new material to terrorize my waking and sleeping hours for several months_ , "but that isn't relevant at the moment. John shot Moriarty. There's a slim possibility he's still at the warehouse."

"Interesting choice of venue. If he often revisits locations he feels are significant, we may be able to use that against him."

Sherlock heard clearly what Mycroft hadn't said. Sherlock's jaw clenched so tightly it was difficult to speak, but he managed to force out the relevant question. "He escaped?" Mycroft's silence was answer enough. "I'll be needing a new phone."

"Hatshepsut and I will bring you one in approximately an hour when we discuss our security options," Mycroft offered. "I need to have _discussions_ with several members of my staff. It may take some time."

"I still need to _discuss_ , as you put it, the events of the past hour with John. I will see you whenever you arrive."

Sherlock shut the phone, grasping one end in each hand. He remembered with disgust the thrill he had felt at the beginning of Moriarty's cases. He recalled with perfect clarity the moment that elation had turned to gut-wrenching, heart-shattering terror. Meeting Moriarty (Sherlock should have put a bullet through his brain then). The video feed of John strapped down, flinching away from innocuous drops of water. Memory after memory of John – the scar on his back, his battered body resting on that mattress –looking like just another corpse, his reactions after the ordeal. Images and audio of Moriarty, the expression on his face as he looked down at John, his promise to _know_ him, every single memory that haunted him, that woke him up in cold sweats and made him scream in his sleep. He channeled all of those emotions into the physical action of snapping his phone in two. And then dividing those halves in half again. And then crushing those pieces under his foot.

When there was no phone left for Sherlock to use to vent his frustrations, he turned his attention back to John. His actions with the mobile had proved his physical faculties were almost fully recovered, so it was with relative ease that he stepped over the coffee table before perching on the edge closest to the sofa. John had finally finished stitching himself up and was now lying on his stomach while Lestrade disinfected his back.

"What may I ask, were you thinking?" Sherlock asked, struggling to keep his voice soft and fairly flat.

John's jaw clenched and he wouldn't meet Sherlock's eyes, his cheeks stained red with shame.

"In my personal opinion, you weren't. Thinking, that is. No one who was thinking would have, after having the conversation we did about choice, sedated their partner to ensure they could rendezvous with the man who has indicated on numerous occasions his desire to torture the person in question – a process he has confessed he finds extremely arousing. Therefore, you weren't thinking. At all."

Sherlock ignored the small strangled noise that Lestrade made, focused entirely on John. John was clearly not proud of what he had done, but from the set of his jaw and the tightening of his muscles, he didn't regret it either.

"You know I'm an idiot. You've known that from the first day we met," John said sharply.

"Everyone is an idiot. Even I am an idiot on rare occasions. This was not idiotic. This was _stupid_. Foolish and senseless and _thoughtless_ ," Sherlock seethed. "Was it at least someone we know? Or did you risk your mind and body for a complete stranger?"

"I think that's good Lestrade. If you'd tape gauze on, I'd really appreciate it – I don't think they're quite done bleeding," John said, lifting his head enough for the Detective inspector to hear his words.  
After enough time had passed for Sherlock to be convinced that John wasn't going to answer, and had subsequently concluded it had been someone unfamiliar, John spoke quietly. "Mike Stamford."

Mike Stamford, the Bart's professor who tolerated Sherlock's cohabitation of his lab. Mike Stamford, John's friend from university. Stamford, who was the reason Sherlock had met John. Mike Stamford had given Sherlock his entire world.

John could clearly read Sherlock's thoughts in his countenance, as his response was a strong nod and the word "exactly."

Sherlock was grateful to Mike. He was. But he would have sacrificed him in a heartbeat to keep John safe.

"Not good, Sherlock."

"For once, John, you are in _no_ position to attempt to argue from the moral high-ground," Sherlock barked, standing slowly until he stood menacingly over the doctor.

Asclepia, who had been sitting silently by John's head, bared her teeth and let out a truly terrifying snarl. She had known Sherlock as long as she had known John, since she was a puppy, but she was his defender. After the events of the day, she would protect him from anyone who seemed remotely threatening, no matter how well they were associated. Sherlock sympathized completely, and took her less than subtle suggestion to sit back down.

Lestrade shut John's medical kit with a snap. "You two clearly need to talk, and I want to go interview this Stamford fellow. Given the lack of frantic calls from the Yard, I'm guessing you cleared off before the police arrived?" John nodded. "Did you stick around long enough to see what happened to Stamford?"

Sherlock lost the tenuous grip he had on his self control, and addressed Lestrade censoriously. "Do you _know_ him? Were you listening to any of what just transpired with even a fraction of your admittedly minuscule brain? No, Lestrade, he went to meet Moriarty, let the man _stab him_ to protect Stamford, made his injuries worse by hauling the man, who weights at least 18 stone, out of the warehouse, and then decided to just _leave_ him there.

" _Yes, he stuck around._ Just look at his trousers! He clearly hid in the shrubbery until he saw the ambulance technicians had collected Stamford before making his way here.

"Now, if you would be so good as to vacate the premise…" Sherlock ordered, rising again. He was ready to physically force the Detective Inspector out the door if necessary. He need John alone, and he needed him alone _now_.

He escorted Lestrade to the door, slamming it and bolting it just after Lestrade had cleared the doorway. Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked back to the sitting room before looming over John.

"I'd prefer to be holding you during this conversation, if it's all the same to you. It will be psychologically reassuring and will prevent me from destroying the flat to vent frustration."

John shifted gingerly, just enough so that Sherlock could slip in underneath him. As soon as the consulting detective was situated, John let his head drop into his lap. Sherlock ran his fingers through John's hair, staring out into the middle distance, trying to ascertain where to start.

"Can I trust you?" he asked, refusing to look at John.

"Be a bit more specific. Can you trust me with your safety? With your life? Always. Can you trust me with my own…"John let out a rueful chuckle. "I don't think I know the answer to that."

"How could you?" Sherlock asked, looking down into the blue eyes. " _How could you do that to me?_ What if he had taken you again? What if things had gone farther? I would find you. You know that, don't you? Where ever he took you, I would follow. Leaving me behind isn't going to prevent me from making the choice I would make if I was there. It just slows the process down."

"Would you have let me go? If I had told you as soon as I chucked the phone at the wall, would you have let me go through with my decision?" John asked, eyes filled with conflict.

"I would do my best to persuade you. I would plead. I would beg. I would use every dirty trick in the book and several more besides. But if you were still determined to go…" Sherlock swallowed, searching every corner of his mind carefully to ensure he was being nothing less than completely truthful, "I would let you make that choice. But I would be beside you."

John's jaw trembled, and Sherlock could feel his own hands shaking violently. He bent over slowly before pressing a long kiss to John's lips. John threw his arm around Sherlock's back, hand fisting in his hair almost painfully. Sherlock didn't know how long they stayed that way. When they finally did part, John let his hand trace over Sherlock's features slowly. Sherlock did his best to keep himself from breaking down. This was far, far too similar to last time. This was what the warehouse had felt like.

"I'll forgive you this time. An eye for an eye and all that. But so help me John, if you ever do that to me again…" Sherlock's voice broke and he glanced away, blinking rapidly.

"Alright," John whispered soothingly. "Alright. Together from now on. Next time, I won't hide anything. I swear."

" _There will not be a next time_."

"You said that the time before this," John said, trying his best to smile and failing.

Silence.

"Sherlock, I need you to answer a question for me. You're here because of me, yeah? That's why you're not out fighting this on the front line."

Sherlock nodded.

"Can you honestly tell me that having you doing legwork, having you on the ground, wouldn't solve this faster?"

Silence.

"Would having you out there fighting him face to face solve this faster?"

"Yes," Sherlock hissed out.

"If I wasn't there to be leveraged, if I was somewhere you _knew_ I was safe, where I couldn't distract you, but only motivate you, would that help?"

"Don't ask me that. For the love of God, don't ask me that. I can't, John. _I can't_."

"I don't think I can either. It would just about rip me to shreds. But Sherlock, with Moriarty, in this situation, we make each other stupid. History has proved this."

"Don't. _Please don't._ "

"You wouldn't be constantly looking over your shoulder. You wouldn't have to worry about me." A deep breath. "I _need_ you to do this for me Sherlock. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take."

"You're asking me? You're asking me to let Mycroft whisk you away to some wasteland, and I couldn't know. If this was going to work, I could know _nothing_. Do you have any idea what that would do to me? Do you comprehend what you are asking me?"

"I know what it would do to me. It'll be the hardest thing we ever have to do. Living without your heart is no mean feat," John whispered, tears welling in his eyes as he moved his hand from Sherlock's face to rest over his heart. "But it's the only option that makes sense."

Sherlock's own vision began to blur. Only the knowledge that John was safe would let him do it.

"Please, Sherlock."

"Fine. _Fine_. You'll go, I'll hunt. I will end this for you. But know that I am thinking about you every moment. Know that it is only because it is you asking that I can make myself even consider it." A deep, shuddering breath. "It'll have to be now. As soon as Mycroft get here. You'll have to leave with him, or else I'll change my mind."

"I love you," John said, hauling himself upwards and leaning against Sherlock's chest.

"I know. I love you too. God help you," Sherlock said, burrowing his face in the crook between John's shoulder and neck, trying to memorize John's smell.

"How long do we have?"

"Half an hour," Sherlock whispered, pressing his lips carefully to the place where Moriarty had marked John, trying to erase the memory.

"So this is goodbye then?"

"No. Not goodbye. Never goodbye."

They kissed, memorizing landscapes and tastes and touches and feelings. It was wet with tears and tongues and it hurt in all the worst and best ways.

"Until we meet again?" John offered again, tilting his head so he could look into Sherlock's eyes.

"Until we meet again," Sherlock agreed.


	7. Jason Clark and Roberta Gomez

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than usual, and I thought the goodbyes were done, but the boys disagreed. Not Beta'd nor Britpik'ed, and John's characterization feels off again...
> 
> Warnings: Tearful goodbyes, flashbacks, drinking.
> 
> * * *

It was somehow decided that Anthea, who was going by Hepshetsut now, apparently, would be in charge of getting John wherever the hell it was he was going. John hadn't really been paying attention at the time - he'd been too fixated on Sherlock to focus on anything else. Sherlock and Mycroft had a rapid-fire conversation that John wouldn't have been able to follow the majority of even if he had been paying attention. Instead, he narrowed in on the warmth of Sherlock pressed against him, the feeling of his wrapped around him, the sharp point of his chin resting on Johns head, and the way he could feel Sherlock's chest vibrate with every silk-smooth word.

Then suddenly, it was time to go. Sherlock wrapped his arms even more tightly around John, refusing to let him move.

"Sherlock," he said, tilting his head back so he could see the detective's face.

Sherlock said nothing. He stared down at John, blue-gray eyes even more penetrating than usual. Sherlock said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes – Reluctance in spades, the echoes of terror, pain enough already and the anticipation of more. Dread and fear. John wasn't sure what Sherlock would see on his own face. The same anticipated pain, probably. The reluctance too, but tempered by resolve.

Whatever it was, it seemed to do the trick, as Sherlock was slowly relinquishing his hold on John. He eased the doctor away from him, just enough so he could slip out underneath, before carefully helping John to his feet. Sherlock draped John's arm over his shoulder prior to wrapping his own low around the doctor's waist.

Under normal circumstances, John would have bridled when Sherlock took the majority of his weight as they made their way slowly down the stairs. John was a proud man, and if he could move unassisted, then he was going to. These were not normal circumstances, and in this situation, John was more than happy to walk slowly down the stairs while wrapped up in Sherlock.

Until suddenly they were outside 221B and a dark car with Anthea holding the door open was waiting at the kerb. Sherlock helped John down into the street, stopping when they were right next to the open door.

"You be careful, yeah?" John said, needing to say _something_.

Sherlock just nodded before taking two steps forward, pining John against the car. John looked up into Sherlock's face, suddenly struck by exactly what he was doing. It could very well be _years_ before he saw him again. John had no idea who moved first, but milliseconds later John's hand was fisted in Sherlock's hair and his other was slipped under the detective's shirt at the small of the his back, pulling them as close a possible. Sherlock's hands were cupping John's rear, pulling him upwards and even closer.

After a seemingly endless amount of time that _still_ wasn't long enough, Sherlock and John untangled their limbs from one another and John reluctantly lowered himself into the car. The door was shut, and Anthea walked around to climb in herself. John lowered his window, because there was one last thing he had to say.

"I love you," John said, leaning out the open window.

"As I do you," Sherlock whispered, his eyes tinged slightly pink.

At this point, John wanted to say goodbye, but Sherlock had made it clear in the flat that he wanted to hear nothing of the sort. John settled for the thought at the forefront in his mind.

"Don't die, alright? Promise me that. Don't risk you're life to prove you're clever."

"I promise."

Sherlock wrapped one hand around John's neck, resting it at the base of his hairline as he pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the top of John's head, pulling back only as the car began to pull away.

John's last view of Sherlock was his carefully cultivated mask shattering completely, Mycroft hastening to support him as he staggered and began to shake.

The sight of Sherlock, normally cold and impassive around everyone save John, falling apart in the middle of a crowded street was what finally undid John. He pulled his knees up onto the seat, wrapping his arms around them and pressing his face into his thighs.

All day, John had been pushing everything back. At the crime scene, he couldn't let himself feel because all the Yard was there. With Doctor Canterbury, he was still holding himself in check because of Sherlock. Weakness while meeting with Moriarty could only have ended in disaster. Afterwards, the argument with Sherlock, followed by their "until-we-meet-again" had taken precedence. But now…

John broke down, the barriers he had been preserving in mind cracking before shattering completely. His stomach rolled and his frame shook as still-frames from the day flew through his mind. Random details became paramount, spending endless time behind his eyelids. The pattern of the shards of Sherlock's phone against the carpet, the water stains on the wall just behind Stamford, the pattern and the texture of the medical tent...

John was trapped in a confusing torrent of painful memories, past and present and feared future twisting together until he couldn't distinguish one from the other. Everything felt real, felt present, like he was trapped in a living nightmare.

Someone reached for him, he didn't know who. All he knew was that they were armed and he wasn't safe. Relying completely on his instincts, John launched himself up, taking his attacker by surprise. He wrestled the gun away from them and forced them to the ground, aiming squarely at his assailant's forehead.

John became aware of a sound over the roaring of the blood in his ears. It was calm, soft, and female. Also oddly familiar.

"Doctor Watson!"

John's head started to turn before he made himself freeze. This was not a time to give up an advantage.

"Doctor Watson, can you tell me where you are?"

John's focus widened, and he slowly became aware of his surroundings once again, the past settling back into the past and the future returning to his nightmares. Leaving only the rather alarming present.

He quickly put the safety back on the gun before dropping it in front of him. "Shit. Oh, god. I'm so sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for, Doctor. I should have anticipated this," Anthea said, calm as ever as she moved to stand beside him. "We need to change vehicles, the sooner the better. If you would be so kind as to get into the car?"

John did, and was joined by a different assistant with a PDA who looked remarkably similar. This change happened three more times, with three different cars and three different women, until finally it was Anthea who joined him in the vehicle.

"What was that?" John asked as they settled in and moved on.

"A precaution. Moriarty might not be able to resist taking advantage of such a situation, no matter what it was he said to you earlier in the warehouse."

John didn't really keep track of the next three or so days. It was all a blur of trains, planes, and automobiles. By the time Anthea finally drove him up to the house where he would be staying for an indefinite period, he didn't even know what time it was, let alone what country he was in.

Anthea gestured for him to go on ahead, typing at a fervent pace on her never absent blackberry. He opened the door to the car and staggered to the doorway, the hours of travel and his injuries finally catching up with him.

The door swung open, and it was only luck that kept John from being bashed in the head–he was much too tired for it to have been his reflexes. When he looked up, he was greeted by the muzzle of a gun. He was still in the process of working out the best way to disarm them when the firearm was lowered slowly.

"John? John Watson?" a familiar voice asked, incredulous.

"Sergeant Donovan?" John chocked out.

Her hair was shorter and had been straightened, and she wearing more casual clothes than he had ever seen her in, but it was clearly the same woman who he hadn't seen since the hospital all those months ago.

Before John had fully finished processing, Sally threw her arms around him. It was clear she was overjoyed to see a familiar face after so many months alone, but John was far from in the mood to be tactile. He pulled away quickly, before she had the chance to set him off.

Anthea suddenly appeared beside them. "I thought a bit of company wouldn't go amiss for either of you," she said before brushing by Sally and into the house, hauling an unfamiliar suitcase behind her.

* * *

John allowed himself one week. One week to be miserable and afraid. One week to think about everything that happened on _that_ day. One week to curl up in a small ball and cry and shake and yell.

Sally allowed him four days. On the morning of the fifth, she stormed into his room, threw open the windows and pulled the covers off his bed. Sally's momentary pause at his back's illumination would have been missed by most, but John had picked up a thing or two in all his time with Sherlock. She shook it off quickly though.

"Right. I've had enough of this. I haven't seen another living soul in almost six months, and I am sick of being on my own. If you want to mope, that's fine, but come do it where I can see you."

John wanted to protest, to tell her to shove off, that she couldn't possibly have any idea what he was going through…

Except if anyone did, it would be Sally.

John got dressed in clothes he'd never seen before in his life, but they were the right size and clearly meant for him, even if they weren't the sort he would have picked out for himself. At least he had solved the mystery of the contents of Anthea's suitcase.

"So, where the hell are we?" John asked as he made his way gingerly down the stairs, sore from days of inactivity and his injuries.

"Somewhere in South America, I think, going by the time, the climate, and the Spanish. You're new identity is on the table, by the way. You have to memorize everything before you can go out."

There was a small stack of papers laid out on the table, all of them bearing the name "Jason Clark." Jason was an American who had moved to London before deciding that he wanted to experience more of the world. He'd never been in the army, but he had been a part of the Red Cross, and had helped give aid in Afghanistan. The information was incredibly detailed, from tax forms to parking tickets, and was all incredibly convincing.

"Jason, huh?" Sally said, peering at the documents on the table in front of John. "Lucky bastard. I'm Roberta Gomez."

"Yeah, but are you an American, Bobbi?"

She smirked at him. "No. That was one bullet I managed to dodge, Jay." She then held up a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. "I need to talk about all of this, and I'd personally feel much better if I did it plastered. Care to join me?"

They weren't quiet shitfaced when Anthea magically appears from whatever fox hole she'd been hiding in, but John at least is pleasantly buzzed. Her normally blank face is twisted in anger and frustration.

"What's go you down?" Sally asked, managing to sound mostly articulate to John.

"I'm to stay here. Stuck until it's safe for Jason to return. This is…unacceptable. I'm _useless_ here, and he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. It's utterly pointless."

Sally disappeared before returning with another glass, filling it with vodka before passing it to Anthea.

"Welcome to the club. Cheers," she said, holding her own glass in a toast.

They spend the rest of the night…day…afternoon…whatever...passing the bottle around and feeling sorry for themselves until they're all completely smashed.


	8. Interlude in Mycroft

Mycroft, in all honesty, had no true notion of how to respond to the situation appropriately. The last time he had seen Sherlock truly upset without pretense had been when he was seven. The last time he had allowed Mycroft to comfort him at such a time, Sherlock had been two years old. To see him now, at thirty-two, lose control so completely–Mycroft found it unnerving.

He followed his instincts, allowing his umbrella to fall to the ground as he wrapped his arms around his brother. Sherlock clung to him, Mycroft's arms the only things keeping him upright. Mycroft didn't know whether the support he took from it was emotional or purely physical, but Mycroft was more than willing to provide whatever he needed.

"I can't, Mycroft. I just…I _can't_. Not without him," Sherlock whispered brokenly. "I can barely manage _with_ him…"

Mycroft said nothing, but tightened his grip on his brother and subtly began maneuvering him towards 221. Sherlock had his pride–he would not want all of London to be witness to what was occurring now. Mycroft didn't want to give Moriarty the satisfaction of watching his cold, logical adversary reduced to an emotional wreck. This way, Sherlock would be comfortable whilst he recovered and could gather any intelligence and personal belongings he needed before leaving.

Mycroft was not the corpulent man his brother made him out to be, but he was neither young nor particularly fit. Sherlock might not weigh as much as he should, but he did weigh _something_. The stairs, as such, presented something of a problem. When he finally made it to 221B, he was out of breath and a tad red in the face. Upon entering the flat, Mycroft was greeted by the unmistakable noise of a dog urination, accompanied with a warm, wet sensation on the bottom of the right leg of his trousers.

"How fond of your dog are you, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked once he had guided Sherlock to the couch and settled down beside him.

Sherlock glared up at his brother, his red eyes and tear-stained cheeks only making it more effect. "You are _not_ harming Locki."

The Doberman paced a circuit around the periphery of the room, sniffing frantically. After a minute or so, she approached the couch, head bowed, ears down, whining low in her throat. Sherlock lowered his hand and scratched her head, murmuring apologies and platitudes a dog was incapable of understanding.

When the Doberman leapt onto the sofa and settled on Sherlock's chest, Mycroft's brother wrapped his arms around her. The damnable Border Collie rested on his brother's feet, and the whole thing felt very domestic and private. Mycroft felt as if he was intruding.

As Sherlock succumbed to a combination a combination of emotional and physical exhaustion, The British Government's beliefs regarding several matters were cemented:

For John Watson, Sherlock Holmes would do _anything_. No matter how far Sherlock had sunk into depression in the past, Mycroft had never been concerned. Sherlock loved himself far too much to intentionally take irreversible action. As he held his brother now, undergoing a voluntary separation, it was becoming increasingly obvious that he loved John more. Had the encounter with Moriarty taken a different path, Mycroft had no doubt Sherlock would have taken his own life without hesitation.

Sherlock would have gone with Moriarty, no question. The results of their combined intellects, no matter how reluctant Sherlock was, would have been catastrophic on a world-wide scale. As such, Mycroft owed Sergeant Sally Donovan a debt he would never have a prayer of repaying. Upon the resolution of the outstanding issue, however, he would do everything within his not inconsiderable power to attempt to even the score.

John Watson was incontestably the most valuable and instrumental man the entire world over. On the surface, his only value was in his influence over others. By possessing Doctor Watson, one could control Sherlock Holmes, a highly intelligent man who could easily be used as a dangerous weapon. However, John Watson was formidable in his own right. There was a reason _he_ was the man Sherlock loved, a reason Moriarty was so driven in his pursuit of him. Every single man who had served with him in Afghanistan had confessed that they would willingly take a bullet for him in a heartbeat, and would continue to risk their lives for him even now, years later. Even Mycroft was not immune - since the first time they had met, Mycroft had viewed the doctor as someone worthy of respect, a claim many world leaders could not make. As time had progressed, he had begun to feel for John Watson the same brotherly affection he held for Sherlock. John Watson was a man who inspired _devotion_.

Most important, however, was this: James Moriarty was the greatest threat to the world at large. As such, he was the top priority and _sole_ focus of the British Government. The argument he had just formulated for his few superiors was compelling, factual, objective, and irrefutable. These reasons were all true and valid, but Mycroft was bent on Moriarty's destruction for far more personal reasons. He had threatened Mycroft's family.


	9. Advantage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Cabin fever? Some symptoms of depression. Bad language

After six months of living in complete isolation, having John Watson around was one of the best things that ever happened to Sally Donavan. She could _be_ Sally Donavan again, instead of wearing the suffocating facade of Roberta Gomez around other people-only to have no reason to take it off.

The morning after their night of drunkenness, Sally rolled out of bed in the early afternoon. She stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and two over-the-counter pain relievers.

"You are aware that the only thing that will cure your headache is time?" said the woman who had arrived with John, who had silently appeared in the doorway while Sally had been rummaging around in the cabinet.

"That," said a voice from the top of the stairs "is a vicious lie, as any medical student will tell you. Time is good. A banana bag is better."

John's decent down the stairs was slow. Painfully slow. Sally knew why he was here; he had told her what had prompted the decision last night. But hearing the abbreviated, unspecific version of what had happened and watching him wince in pain with every step were two very different experiences.

"Tea is preferred over pity, if anyone was wondering," John said sharply as he finally made it to the ground floor.

"How do you take your tea, John?" Sally asked as the kettle whistled. Whatshername gave her a sharp pinch on the arm. "What the hell was that for?"

"His name is Jason. You forget that and you put him in danger. You put _all of us_ in danger."

The three eventually settled down at the table, quietly nursing their hangovers and picking at a simple breakfast of dry toast. The somewhat familiar woman…Kathryn? had out her blackberry, typing furiously, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Amanda Browning," she spoke suddenly.

"Hmm?" Joh…Jason asked, pulling his gaze back to the table.

"Amanda Browning. My name. My identity until this issue is resolved."

"Does Amanda happen to have certifications in physical therapy?" John…Jason…J asked.

A few more clicks, followed by a wide smile. "Why, yes, she does."

Thus, J's period of self-inflicted torture began. At the beginning, Sally couldn't help put hover, but seeing the stubborn set of the man's jaw as he forced himself through painful exercise after painful exercise was a bit much for her. And she could tell John didn't like having her watching – he was ashamed of how much effort "simple" tasks were giving him.

When he and Amanda were done for the day, J would sit on the couch in the main room, reading and annotating one of the volumes in a huge encyclopedia he had had delivered three days into his PT. Sally would sit with him attempt to get through _Pride and Prejudice_. Third time is the charm and all that.

Sally had missed this. Missed knowing that there were other people around. Missed the quiet companionship that sprung up between two people who simply occupied the same space.

For Sally, the third time was the hardest yet. She kept getting distracted by the scratch on J's pen on the pages of his book. Sally managed to keep her curiosity in check for just under a week. J deserved a little privacy, a secret or two, after what he had been living with for the past half-year. But one day, she just couldn't help herself.

Highlighted phrases and J's annotations jumped out in a confused jumble. _"Absence of abuse viewed as kindness"; "total dependence for basic needs"_. It took Sally longer than it should have to piece it all together.

"Stockholm Syndrome?" she asked, struggling to stay calm. If John was anticipating failure, if he viewed his abduction as inevitable…

"An ounce of prevention and all that. And it might be useful afterwards. Kidnapping is an occupational hazard when living with Sherlock."

"And the conditioning?" she asked, gesturing to another tome resting on the floor. "How could _that_ be useful, once all this is over?"

"Pet training, for one. Other than that, who knows? Maybe I can use sex to motivate Sherlock into doing the dishes."

It isn't funny. There is too much truth behind it, the echoes of dark possibility. Sally laughed anyway – it was either that or become hysterical.

At the close of the month, J's and Amanda's second at the house, Amanda was forced to admit J was ship-shape once again.

He spent the next week focuses solely on his research. Day after day spent bent over books, and about half the time she woke in the morning to find he had fallen asleep on the couch, encyclopedia volume open and an uncapped pen in his left hand.

Sally usually took away his book, covered him up, and tried to make sure there was a cup of tea waiting when he woke up. One morning, she found Amanda doing her routine. Sally had to confess she was surprised - Amanda didn't typically interact with J outside of PT, and had she seemed to derive a sort of vindictive satisfaction out of forcing him to do the exercises.

"I forget, sometimes. What he's been through. And that he isn't responsible for my being here. He's just as stuck and restless as I am."

Now that Amanda had mentioned restlessness, Sally could _see_ J's mental state deteriorating hour by hour. The signs were easy to recognize - she had seen them in the mirror. Amanda was no better; the circles under her eyes were growing darker by the day, and she looked like she felt trapped inside her own skin.

It was J who found the solution.

"Right. I'm going for a run. I _cannot_ be in this house for another minute."

J didn't just run, though. He returned to the routine he had used while he was in the army. Sit up, pull ups, crunches, weightlifting, running, even arms practice. He set up a miniature firing range in the basement, and Sally only had to take one look at J's targets to understand who had shot the cabbie the first day she met him.

Two days later, Sally joined him, and Amanda threw her hat in the beginning of the next week. There was something soothing about it initially. It reminded her of her days at the academy and gave her something to focus on other than the crushing sense _uselessness_. Her heart would race, endorphins and adrenaline would course through her veins, but something was missing. There was no drive, no purpose behind it.

Sally didn't know how long it had been since J and Amanda had arrived – days, weeks, and months had blended into one _long_ blur. Until one afternoon, there was a huge crash that shattered the habitual silence they fell into while weight-lifting. Sally froze, her muscles tensed. Was this it? Had he found them?

Instead of the team of commandos she was fearing, Sally was greeted by the sight of a red-faced, panting John Watson and the glints of reflected sunlight from the shards of the shattered bay window on the other side of the room.

"I. Cannot. Fucking. _Do. This!_ I am going _insane_. I can't just wait here for God only know how long. Until Sherlock turns up or _he_ finds us and _murders_ the two of you before he _rapes_ me. _I fucking refuse_!"

No one said anything for several long moments. There wasn't anything _to_ say. Sally knew _exactly_ how he felt.

"You chose this," Amanda said eventually, enunciating each word. "You chose to go into hiding."

"No!" shouted John. "I chose to _end_ this. I chose to create a situation where Sherlock could work to the best of his ability. This was the only way to make that possible. I chose that. I didn't sign up for _this_ ," he said throwing his arms out to indicate their situation. John toppled a nearby table to emphasize a point. "I was in the _army_. I should be out there, _doing_ something."

John froze, an expression on his face Sally had often seen Sherlock wear at crime scenes. "He shot him," John said, his voiced awed.

"What?" Sally asked, fearing for a moment that being cooped up had caused John to lose what little sanity he'd had to begin with.

"Moriarty. He had the man who shot me killed. He shot his own right hand man when he threatened me. Don't you see? No one is allowed to hurt me _but him_."

Amanda lit up with understanding, smiling broadly. "His men can't touch you. Moriarty is possessive to the extreme – anyone who so much as came in physical contact with you, let alone harmed or threatened you, would be killed."

"I'm untouchable, as far as his goons are concerned. I could do some real damage with an advantage like that."

"Three people could do a lot more," Sally offered. She scoffed at John's surprised expression. "Oh, come on. Do you think you're the only one sick of this bullshit? I am a cop. Serve and protect and all that. And the only reason she's here," Sally said, gesturing at Amanda, "is to keep an eye on you. It would be irresponsible of everyone involved to do anything else."

Accomplishing what needed to be done without alerting anyone was laughably easy. Apparently, Amanda was the one who had been in charge of all the arrangements for Sally from the start. An encrypted email every week or so saying everything was perfectly fine, and the trio was free to do what needed to be done.

They spend the next week or so planning. Amanda knows all the backdoors in whatever Government system they're hacking, and from what Sally can make of the frustrated snippets she hears Amanda shout at the computer, it's because she put most of them there herself.

Eventually it was decided that John would go in first as a distraction, but only after much vigorous debate. ("I'm the only one who has ever done anything like this before – Amanda, shut it right now. Whatever it is you do, it isn't the same as war. They won't hurt me, and I'm not a civilian! I am perfectly capable of handling myself. If you lot would just keep your mother-hening to yourselves, we could have been done with this two days ago! Sall–Jesus, Amanda, stop it with the pinching! _Bobbi_ , I'll be fine. Don't worry about it.)

The first time they try out the plan, there were a few snags. They had formulated the plan under the assumption that Moriarty's goon would recognize John on sight. As such, there was much more return fire than they had been anticipating. This didn't phase John a bit – in fact, he seemed to revel in it. Every time he briefly left cover to fire, at least two men went down.

"Who the fuck _is_ this guy?" Sally had heard one of the goons exclaim from her position behind a pile of crates.

There was an invigorated, slightly maniacal laugh from the other side of the room, where Sally knew John had found cover.

"This guy," he said, springing out and taking down two more thugs, "is John Watson. And he would really, really hate to be in your shoes right now."

"Fuc–" was all the man had time to get out before one of Amanda's bullets hit him in the back of the head.

Sally had spent most of the firefight pinned down, but towards the end she managed to make herself somewhat useful. Three shots, and two of them went wide. The third hit her intended target directly in the chest.

Sally stood frozen, unable to tear her eyes away from the glint of gold around the forth finger of his left hand.

John whooped, a triumphant, invigorated sound. Amanda climbed down from her perch in the rafters, a wide grin splitting her face, and Sally simply felt numb. She followed the two of them, held things when they asked her to, and helped them eliminate evidence of who exactly it was who had carried out the operation.

"We should get moving," Amanda said as soon as they were finished. "They might have been able to get out a communication of some sort, and we need to ensure that none of Moriarty's people can trace this to our new location."

After that, there were several frantic hours of travel, bouncing from train to car to plane so quickly that Sally soon lost track. By the time they finally arrived at their new safe house, everyone was exhausted.

When she was certain everyone else had gone to bed, Sally bent over the bowl of the toilet, her stomach heaving as it emptied itself. All she could see was the man's face. His startled, surprised expression as the bullet from her gun hit him in the chest. The way he gasped and twitched before finally going still. It always looked so fast, so clean and simple on the telly. Sally dealt with death all the time, it was her job–she'd never dealt with dying before, never been responsible for ending someone else's life.

When she pulled away, wiping her mouth with her sleeve, Sally was shaking violently, tears running down her face. She couldn't even yell for privacy when the door eased open than clicked softly shut behind her.

"My first day at the hospital, working on an actual surgery, not just a med-school cadaver, I passed out," John said behind her, his voice echoing off the tiles in the bathroom. It wasn't gentle or comforting – Sally didn't think she would have been able to stomach that. John was steady, even, as if he were simply recounting what he'd had for breakfast that morning.

"The first time I had a patient die under my knife, I couldn't eat anything without feeling ill for a week, and didn't sleep for two days. The night after my first shift in Afghanistan, I cried myself to sleep. The first time I shot a man…" John chuckled grimly. "It was far from pretty."

"So don't feel weak or pathetic or whatever variation of that theme is going through your head. He was a person. You ended a life. This? You're reaction? It's what makes you human. What makes you different from the man you killed today is this. Because he wouldn't be violently ill and crying hysterically over your body, that I can tell you right now."

"But I still shot him," Sally chocked out. "Protect and Serve. I'm only supposed to take a life if there is no other option. What am I doing, John?"

John walked over, sliding down the wall so he was sitting next to her. He looked thoughtful. "It's not easy. It won't get easier, and it _shouldn't_. For me, at least, it usually comes down to right and wrong. Afghanistan…I was doing what I thought was right. I was fighting for what I believed it. But the thing was, most of the time, so were the men I was shooting at. This? What we did here? This was right. There is no doubt in my mind about that."

Sally tried to think about what he was saying objectively, tried to view it from the perspective John was showing her. But bloodstained chest, his empty eyes were all she could see. At least this time when she bent over the bowl, there was a soothing hand at her back and someone pulling back her hair.

"How do you do this? How can you be so okay after today?"

"I'm not. I'll have nightmares tonight, but that's nothing new. There's a chance I'll wet the bed in my sleep. I'll probably end up writing about it – it really does tend to help me. The trick to this is learning how to ensure you don't break down until you're safe, and you've already got that down."

Sally didn't know how long she sat on knees in front of the toilet, or at what point John wrapped his arms around her. What she did know was that several hours later, she woke up, stiff and sore, resting against his chest.

"You don't have to come with us again. You don't have to…"

John's scar, the hostages, Sherlock at the hospital, Lestrade after he had been drugged –"No. I think I do."

They fall into a new routine, although this one is far less predictable. Three weeks of planning, two hours of chaos, and four days running like hell. Amanda holding Sally's hair back as she crouches over the toilet, Sally helping John wash his sheets in the middle of the night, Amanda staring off into space, her face pained, before John forces a cup of tea on her.

Until one day, they decided to split up during those two hours of chaos. Amanda and Sally wait for John. And wait. And wait. After fifteen minutes, they know something has gone wrong. They sprint, searching every room they come across. The knot of anxiety in Sally's gut is growing larger and tighter with every minute.

When Sally approaches the rendezvous again and sees a figure standing next to Amanda, the knot eases and tears up, overwhelmed by relief. When she gets close enough to see the figure, that relief turns to dread.

It isn't John waiting with Amanda. It's Sherlock Holmes, and he looks angry enough to kill.


	10. Limits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter we add drug use and kidnapping to our long list of ever-increasing warnings

When Sherlock woke the morning after John left, he kept his eyes tightly closed. The longer he refused to acknowledge that he was no longer asleep, the longer he could delude himself into believing that the events that transpired yesterday had been just another nightmare.

The quiet shuffling of papers beside him and the low whine coming from the heavy weight on his chest made the illusion impossible to maintain. Sherlock opened his eyes reluctantly, staring up at the cracks in the paint on the familiar ceiling.

"Would you prefer to begin right away? Or do I need to locate a condemned building you can assist in demolishing?" Mycroft asked, his voice soft.

Sherlock was startled by it. Mycroft was always in control. Always. Sherlock had learned to rely on minutia when attempting to decipher his brother's mood. Today, however, his words were clipped, his tone sharp; the majority of the population would have thought him irritated. From Sherlock's brother, who always had superb emotional control, this was declaration of absolute outrage; Mycroft was _irate_.

"Well?" Mycroft asked, brining Sherlock's attention back to the matter at hand, "Which?"

As appealing as venting his anger sounded, Sherlock could not bear to be parted from John for a second longer than was absolutely necessary. Sherlock would instead channel all that fear, anger, and longing into what he had to do.

A very, very miniscule part of him was glad. Sherlock was a man of action, a man meant for legwork. His mind, body, and spirit all rebelled at inaction. Finally, _finally_ he could work to bring this to a close. Here was a chase, a game - one that could and would span continents and months. Six months ago, that would have been more than enough.

Now, though, it wasn't the love of solving puzzles nor the need to be entertained that drove him. It was the freedom to finally move, to do whatever was in his power to protect John, to destroy the man who had threatened what Sherlock held so dear.

John had understood this on some level. He had known that what Sherlock wanted was to be solving the problem himself. He had also understood that what Sherlock _needed_ was, above all else, John's safety. The two could not mutually occur if John remained in Sherlock's company, and Sherlock refused to acknowledge that there was another option. John had forced Sherlock into the expedited solution to both problems - one he had never allowed himself to consider, and one he still found dissatisfying. Only John could force Sherlock into anything that would require their parting.

"Now," he spoke aloud, finally responding to Mycroft's query. "I want this ended as quickly as possible."

Four and a half hours later, Sherlock was standing on a street corner in Moscow, phone in his pocket and a bag slung over one shoulder, equipped with a laptop full of relevant information, ridiculous amounts of currency from all over the world, and a gun.

And so the chase began.

Two days into his hunt, Sherlock began smoking again. Breathing was boring under normal circumstances, and without John he couldn't get enough air into his lungs anyway. What little he received might as well be laced with nicotine. One month and three of Moriarty's contacts later, Sherlock was smoking a pack a day.

The cocaine didn't start until he received Moriarty's message.

Sherlock hadn't been expecting it. Everything that had to be said had been said in the warehouse six months ago, and Moriarty hadn't demonstrated any interest since then. Sherlock had thought the game was over. Then two months in, Sherlock followed his newest lead to an apartment to find a bloody and broken man waiting for him on the bed.

Sherlock had remained frozen in the doorway for an indeterminable amount of time, rooted to the floor in terror. For several, long, agonizing moments he had been sure it was John. He finally narrowed in on the differences - height, skin tone, scars. Small, subtle things. The resemblance was staggering.

A familiar ring cut through the oppressive silence. Sherlock clenched his jaw, stalking over to the bed. The phone, brand new, sat on the still chest of the John doppelganger, positioned precisely over his heart. Sherlock lifted it carefully off the man's chest, turning it over in search of any distinguishing marks. There were several. Moriarty had once again gone to a great deal of trouble to create a similar phone. Not "A Study in Pink" this time, but a replica of John's phone.

Sherlock put it on speaker, holding the phone out and away from his body. He didn't want it any closer to his person than was absolutely necessary.

"Hello again!" Moriarty's voice chirped cheerfully from the phone, sending fear and rage coursing through Sherlock.

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. He wasn't surprised Moriarty was using his own voice - this was personal now. It was _all_ about getting his hands dirty.

"I've decided you'll be conscious during the dissection of your brain," Sherlock hissed in the general direction of the phone, turning around so he wouldn't have to look at the corpse.

Moriarty let out a little chuckle at the threat, like it was a amusing joke. "You came out to play!" he crowed, sounding incredibly pleased. "I didn't expect _that_. Johnny's so good at giving me things I didn't know I wanted. I can't wait to return the favor."

Sherlock said nothing, but dug his fingernails into his thigh.

"As you can see, I'm not quite where I should be. We did get there eventually, but it took longer than I would have liked. Messy too – I need to work on my finesse."

"What do you _want_?"

"Johnny, obviously. I'm calling you because I have some time, and some people, to kill. And honestly Sherlock, watching you squirm is almost as delicious as the anticipation that teaching your brother's decoys to enjoy pain gives me, the promise of Johnny writhing beneath me instead," a short, breathy moan, "heady Sherlock."

"Watching you frantic, enraged, crazed…it's a close second Sherlock. And its nice to see what you're truly capable of."

Sherlock destroyed the phone, the room, _the entire building_ , in a fit of temper that would have put the Greco-Roman gods to shame.

The next four months, Sherlock destroyed what he estimates to be a quarter of Moriarty's network. In the same four months, he found three more bodies and three more phones. He was up to two packs a day of cigarettes and injects himself with a 7% solution of cocaine on a daily basis. His dreams, when he could not prevent himself from sleeping, were filled with mutilated, broken bodies. Well, body. John's. Always John's. And Moriarty, standing behind him, hovering over him, _inside him_.

Sherlock jerked away, gasping harder than he had after he'd been strangled. He reached automatically beside him, searching for the reassuring warmth that wasn't there.

He had his essentials gathered and was on the street within minutes. Sherlock tried to focus on what he needed to do, what needed to happen so John could return. But all he could see were still frames from his nightmares, coupled with terrifying images from his memory. He couldn't focus on what needed to be done.

It wasn't hard to find the right people, if you knew what you were looking for. Sherlock found what he needed and paid through the nose to get it as fast as possible – he was in no mood to haggle.

Sherlock found a secluded alley and ransacked his bag for a new needle. He would be stupid with his own body, and had been, but he would never risk John's health. Sherlock found a vein, slid the needle home, and deployed the plunger quickly and with the easy of practice.

He waits eagerly for the boost he needs, the familiar rush that will force his neurons into firing rapidly enough for him to do what needs to be done. Instead, Sherlock is greeted by dark spots in the corners of his eyes that slowly converge, blocking his vision completely.

Everything is black

Sherlock wasn't unconscious long. Seven hours at most. He woke in what appeared to be a warehouse, a separate, closed off room. Supervisor's office, in all likelihood. He's been tied to a chair, and he can tell by the knots that this captor knows exactly how to ensure Sherlock isn't going anywhere. There is really only one man who could pull that off.

As Sherlock suffers from the familiar crash, he can't help but be impressed. Moriarty really is _very_ clever. The bodies and taunts were carefully calculated to drive him back to his drug of choice. Moriarty knew where his own people were, and therefore where Sherlock was, and likely controlled all the suppliers in the area. Ensuring a sedative made its way into Sherlock's stash would have been child's play.

Moriarty didn't keep Sherlock waiting long. He could tell by the footsteps outside the door that he has come, this far at least, alone. Sherlock vowed to himself that he would keep himself in check. Moriarty obviously wanted something, and if Moriarty wanted something, Sherlock might be able to use that to his advantage, if he could remain collected enough to use the opportunity properly.

"Sherlock," Moriarty practically purred as he approached the consulting detective. "I must say, you and yours have managed to place a very large thorn in my side. I'm impressed. Watching you without Johnny has been an interesting experience for me, and it's raised a few questions I was hoping you would help me answer."

The psychopath strolled lazily behind Sherlock, an a slow, lazy smile spreading over his face.

"What would you be willing to do, Sherlock?" What would you do to keep me from touching Johnny?"

Sherlock said nothing. Moriarty already knew the answer to his question.

"Would you come with me? Willingly?"

Sherlock's silence was greeted with a disappointed sigh, followed by a painful tug on his hair, forcing his head back. Moriarty started down at hi with his empty eyes, shaking his head in disappointment.

"You answer someone when they ask you a question, Sherlock. That's the polite thing to do."

Sherlock nodded.

"Would you consult on crimes? Would you commit them?"

"We established this during our last meeting," Sherlock said, his voice calm.

"Would you kill for him?" Moriarty asked, tugging his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

Another nod.

"Would you let me hurt you?" he asked in a soft, seductive voice, his hand curling painfully into Sherlock's shoulder. " _Would you let me fuck you?_ " Moriarty whispered, his lips brushing against Sherlock's ear.

"Yes," Sherlock croaked out. Everything for John. Surely he knew that. So why the pretense of establishing boundaries?

"You, a sociopath, would do _anything_ to keep me away from him, wouldn't you?" Moriarty crooned, walking around the chair and directly into Sherlock's line of sight.

"Obviously."

"Now Sherlock, use that big brain of yours. What do you think Johnny would do, what do you think he would let _me_ do, to keep you away from me?" Moriarty asked, smile wide and eyes blazing in triumph.

Sherlock had remained relatively placid until this point. Conserving his strength had seemed the logical approach, and the exchange he thought Moriarty had been proposing had been one he was comfortable with, one he would appreciate, even. This though…unendurable. Abhorrent. Sherlock checked again for loose knots, tested to see if dislocation was a feasible option for escape. When it became clear that fineness wasn't going to the trick, Sherlock simply threw himself against his bonds repeatedly, using all the force he could muster.

"The thing about withdrawal," Moriarty said, smiling down at him, "is that it tends to sap the strength. Not that you had much to begin with."

"It won't work," Sherlock said whilst still struggling, _praying_ with every fiber of his being that it might be true.

"Do you want to know why he didn't kill me, Sherlock? Why he didn't put a bullet in my brain? The threat on his life was for you – we both know it. He would sacrifice himself without a second thought for the greater good. I don't think even he understands why he did it."

Moriarty paused, most likely for dramatic effect.

"It was _you_ Sherlock. The conversation in Doctor Canterbury's office. Everything within Johnny subconsciously rejects any action that could lead to your destruction. This _will_ work, Sherlock. I have no doubt."

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock said triumphantly, clinging to his last lifeline. "You won't be able to communicate with him to propose this exchange. He's beyond your reach. Not even I know where he is."

"Oh, but _I_ do," Moriarty said, smile somehow growing wider.

Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat as the sound of the door behind him easing open reached his ears. No. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible.

 _Not probable_ a small part of him whispered _but not impossible_.

"Heeerrreee's Johnny!" Moriarty crowed triumphantly.


	11. Spoils of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING: EXPLICIT NON-CON THIS CHAPTER. From Moriarty's point of view, no less.**
> 
>  **If you want to skip this chapter and the one that will follow, I wouldn't blame you. I didn't really want to write them either, and you're comprehension of the fic as a whole won't suffer. That being said...**
> 
>  **trillsabells from livejournal is the reason this was finished. She kicked my muse into gear, and I thank her for it, because as much as I hated doing it, this part had to be written.**

The strength of Jim Moriarty's reaction upon seeing John for the first time in four months was not entirely unexpected, yet still surprising. Jim watched with rapt attention as Johnny's blue eyes swept quickly around the room, his entire body freezing and eyes widening in fear when he saw Jim.

"I must confess, Johnny, no matter how many times you impress me, I'm always surprised. Pleasantly, to be sure, but surprised none-the-less." Jim took a step forward, one calculated to bring him even with the chair where his adversary – in all things – was bound. "I'm a difficult man to surprise. Wouldn't you agree, Sherlock?"

Jim knotted his fingers in Sherlock's hair (greasy - at least a week without a wash), yanking his head to the side, exposing his profile to Johnny. The sharp, pained exhale let him know he had succeeded.

"Most people," Jim said, pulling his favorite knife out of his jacket (it had spilled Johnny's blood. It was nothing less than sacred to him now) and rolling it idly back and forth between the fingers of one hand, "upon discovering the depth of my possessiveness, my desire, would run and hide, cowering in terror. But not you. No, Johnny, you found a way to turn it against me. You're so _clever_ Johnny," Jim said, his tone bordering on reverent.

Jim wanted nothing more than to close the space between them, to pull Johnny up against him, to touch him, to _taste_ him. But this was the crucial moment. The turning point. Haste could easily ruin _months_ of work. He had to be patient.

Johnny took a half-step towards Jim, raising his gun, an actual browning this time, and Jim had no doubt that he would fire. He yanked Sherlock's head back, leaving his neck exposed, and pressed the tip of the knife against Sherlock's carotid artery. The bullet would need approximately five seconds. The knife would take less than three.

Johnny took a deep breath in through his nose, then exhaled slowly, lowering the gun back to his side, murder in his eyes as he glared at Jim.

"Thirty-seven of my own people, Johnny. I had to punish thirty-seven of my own men for creating situations where you could have been damaged." Jim glanced down at Sherlock when the consulting detective made a slightly strangled noise. "Didn't you know, Sherlock? Johnny and his pals have been making messes. He knew they wouldn't touch him and that I'd be forced to clean up afterwards. That's how I knew we'd find him here."

There was a sound at the door, and Johnny rounded at it, gun aimed at the newcomer.

"Stevenson! Punctual as ever. If you'd be so good as to take my place. And Johnny, what did Daddy tell you about guns the last time we played together?"

Stevenson did as ordered, standing to the side of the chair allowing him to keep Johnny in sight, pressing a gun into Sherlock's temple.

"What do you want?" Johnny asked, flinging his gun to the side and vibrating with rage.

"You know what I want," Jim said, calling on years of training to keep both his face and voice impassive.

Johnny closed his eyes and took a deep breath before straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders. When he opened his eyes again, they were full of steely determination and resolve. "And if I give it to you?"

"John Watson, if you _dare_ to think…" Jim nodded at the minion, who tightened an arm around Sherlock's throat until the consulting detective could barely breathe, let alone talk.

"I'd give you what you need," Jim answered Johnny.

"Sherlock. You're not to harm him."

Jim nodded, blood coursing through his veins. He was close, so _close_ to what he'd been working for. "Of course not."

"You'll let him go."

"Now, that, I'm afraid, I can't do. I want to make sure you behave yourself, and our dear consulting detective here is the best way to do that. I'm also a bit short staffed at the moment, and this makes an excellent recruitment opportunity. So, no. Sherlock comes with us."

Sherlock was unsurprisingly relieved. Johnny, on the other hand, became even more tense. Love – it made it so easy to play them off one another.

Jim wasn't planning on taking Sherlock. Perhaps one day, when Johnny had been properly trained. Until then he would be too much of liability. Sherlock attempting to escape and sabotage at every turn, eventually succeeding. Johnny defiant and hopeful – it just wouldn't do.

"If you let him go," Johnny began slowly, turning each word over in his head before he spoke it, "I'll cooperate. I won't fight you. Anything you want Moriarty – I promise to try."

The erection Jim had been fighting for the past quarter of and hour throbbed into life. Perfect, this new idea, inspired by Johnny's promise. Absolutely perfect. Jim banished his muscle with a casual flick of his wrist – _no one_ would be allowed to witness this save Sherlock.

" _Prove it_ ," Jim hissed, his entire body coiled tight in anticipation.

Jim beckoned Johnny with a crooked finger. Johnny took one last deep breath, steeling himself, before beginning his march across the room. He slowed as he passed Sherlock's chair, his hand brushing briefly against the detective's arm.

"John…" Sherlock choked out in a half-broken whisper.

"Choices, Sherlock. Remember?" John muttered, shooting the detective an admirable approximation of a smile.

Johnny turned away from Sherlock, closing the distance remaining between them. Johnny's face was shuttered and blank, and he fell into parade rest two feet away.

Jim smirked, trying to keep himself under control. "Time for an inspection, solider." He closed the space between them, wrapping his hands around the doctor, being sure to press himself against Johnny wherever he could manage. "Shirt, Johnny."

John unclasped his hands and raised his arms, allowing Jim to pull the fabric over his head. Jim discarded it quickly before letting his hands roam over Johnny's back, becoming impossibly harder as he traced of the words forever scared there for all to see. Jim gripped Johnny's hips, pulling the doctor flush against him. Jim bent his head to Johnny's neck, placing a possessive love bite at Johnny's pulse point. The feeling of flesh beneath his teeth and the _taste_ of Johnny on his tongue came dangerously close to undoing him.

Sherlock hissed in outrage, but otherwise was usually quiet. Johnny said nothing, but Jim could feel the muscles in his neck cording, could feel every shift in the body he had forced against his own.

Jim pulled back, cupping Johnny's chin between his index finger and thumb, forcing Johnny to meet his eyes. The dark blue orbs were filled with defiance – that wouldn't do at all.

"Passive resistance is not what you promised me, Johnny boy," Jim whispered against Johnny's ear, nipping at the lobe. "You'd give me that for _anyone_. I'm starting to think Sherlock isn't as special to you as you make him out to be. And if that's the case, I think he's rather outlived his usefulness…"

Jim was cut off as Johnny's lips pressed against his own, silencing him. Jim beamed in triumph as he pulled away before angling the doctor's head so he could claim his mouth properly.

Johnny was no longer passive. He was filled to the brim with rage, and he channeled every ounce of it into Jim's plundering of his mouth, fighting off Jim's tongue with his own and biting as hard as he dared whenever he had the chance. Johnny's hands, once fisted at his sides, were now fisted in Jim's hair, attempting to yank it out at the roots. It echoed of Jim's fond memories of their first encounter together nearly eleven months ago.

It was violent and filled with hatred – absolutely _perfect_. Never, even in his most fantastic imaginings, had Jim imagined Johnny's active participation at this early stage. The coupled sensations of the heat and damp of Johnny's mouth and the amount of passion involved – it was _exquisite_.

"Good boy," Jim murmured as he dug his fingernails into the doctor's hips and rubbed himself against Johnny, reveling in the friction.

Sherlock had moved beyond hissing to vociferating his planned demise for Jim, promises to make it painful, and proposed tortures to cement his promises. It only made Jim more ecstatic – tormenting Sherlock was almost as sweet as having Johnny within his grasp.

"On your knees, Johnny," Jim ordered, his voice husky with dark desire. Jim's doctor gritted his teeth, but lowered himself to the floor, kneeling in front of is master like a good pet.

Jim stroked his fingers through Johnny's hair, looking away from the arousing sight at his feet to focus on the irate detective bound to the chair scant meters away. "Tell me, Sherlock, how's his gag reflex?"

The detective _lunged_ at him, the weights on the chair the only thing that prevented it from toppling. " _If you touch him again, you're a dead man. No more waiting. No more playing – the next time I see you, and I will not rest until I find you, I will_ _**end**_ _you_." The pure hatred boiling in his eyes, the desire for violence radiating out of every pore left no doubt about his sincerity.

Jim smirked and unbuckled his belt.

" _YOU PSYCHOPATHIC_ _ **FUCK**_ _! DON'T TOUCH HIM! DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH HIM! I WILL_ _ **KILL**_ _YOU! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU AND BRING YOU BACK SO I CAN DO IT AGAIN!_ _ **DON'T FUCKING TOUCH HIM**_ _!_ "

"Sherlock," Johnny uttered calmly at Jim's feet, "shut up." His demure tone cut through the detective's tirade. "This is going to be hard enough without you reminding me that you're watching."

Johnny undid Jim's zip with a trembling hand. "I can usually control it, but I won't make any promises." He stared down at the floor as he responded to the question that had set Sherlock off.

"Look at me, Johnny," Jim commanded, tugging harshly on the shorter man's hair. "I am going to fuck your mouth. You are going to take it all, and you are going to swallow. If you misbehave, I will cut one of Sherlock's tendons. Do you understand?"

Johnny nodded, still staring at the floor. Jim pulled sharply at his hair again.

"A verbal answer please. And you are not to look away from me again. Now, do you understand?"

Jim's doctor looked up at him before answering, eyes filled with horror and rage, but no defiance. "Yes, I understand."

Jim pulled himself out, already wet and dripping with precum, and rested his tip against Johnny's lower lip, grasping his doctor's hair in both his hands. Jim glanced up, meeting Sherlock's eyes across the room. He held the consulting detective's gaze and thrust into Johnny's mouth.

Johnny had a hot, wonderfully wet mouth. It made Jim groan, throwing his head back and letting sensation roll over him in heady waves as he thrust into his doctor's mouth. The little choking sounds Johnny made every time Jim hit the back of his throat, and Sherlock's wordless growl of outrage were music to his ears. He was close. So close. Just a little more…

Jim forced his eyes open, savoring the murderous expression on the detective's face as he threw himself repeatedly against his bonds, each attempt as futile as the one before. His gaze slid lower. Johnny's bare back, shining with perspiration from exertion and fear, the pale red words of ownership easily visible. His mark on his doctor's neck, there for all the world to see. Johnny, on his knees and trembling, Jim's cock down his throat and his fear-filled eyes fixed unwaveringly on Jim's own.

The consulting criminal came hard, his vision clouding over as he thrust deeper and harder, his " _MINE_ " echoing throughout the room.

Johnny, good boy that he was, swallowed every drop.

Jim pulled out, panting, before yanking Johnny up to his level by his hair. He forced a bruising, possessive kiss on his doctor, reveling in his ability to taste himself in Johnny's mouth.

"So good, pet," he whispered ferverntly. "Good boys deserve a treat – say goodbye to your detective while Daddy gets cleaned up."

Johnny staggered over to Sherlock's side, limp more pronounced than ever. He wrapped his arms around the detective and let his head fall into Sherlock's lap as his leg finally gave out. They whispered back and forth in highly emotional tones. Jim let them be, putting himself back into something resembling order. He called Stevenson back from where he had been guarding the door and took a syringe off the man.

"Time's up, Johnny," Jim said.

"You'll let him go?" Johnny asked, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Sherlock as he levered himself up.

"I'll leave him here, where your sisters-in-arms can find him. They'll most likely notice your absence and begin searching the building within the next half-hour. Releasing him any sooner would be suicidal."

Johnny didn't move. He brushed Sherlock's hair out of his face before giving him a lingering kiss.

"Come, Johnny," Jim ordered, his voice leaving no doubt that there would be consequences if he was disobeyed.

Johnny came, eyes red, and didn't struggle when Jim injected him with a mild sedative. Jim caught his doctor as he fell, carding a hand through the older man's hair before pressing a tender kiss to the top of his head.

"Take him to the car," Jim ordered, passing Johnny over to his most recent second in command. "And if you allow any harm to come to him, I will carve the damage with interest out of your beating heart."

Stevenson gave a jerky nod before he half-carried half-dragged Johnny out of the room, leaving Jim and Sherlock alone once again.

The consulting detective's tearstained face was the essence of rage. "You're a dead man walking," Sherlock informed him, voice cold as ice and hard as steel.

Jim smirked, took two steps forward, and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips, pulling back before he was bitten. Jim had _all_ the power here, just the way he liked it. He said nothing, just smirked until he reached the doorway.

"I won, Sherlock," he said, his voice filled with triumph. "And to the victor go the spoils."


	12. End of the Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS: NON-CON. Emotional, Psychological, and Physical abuse.**

John had never really understood the "fate worse than death" perspective on rape. It was hideous and unspeakably painful on both an emotional and physical level, but you were still _breathing_. Pinned down to the mattress, hands griping his wrists hard enough to add another layer of bruises, Moriarty's weight pressing him down and pushing into him, hissing words of exultation and ownership against John's bare skin, he thought he was beginning to understand.

The act itself was...horrifying was too mild a word, but it was the best he could come up with. John felt vulnerable and violated to his very core every time it happened. That his body often reacted, was aroused no matter how he loathed and feared the hand wrapped around him, made it impossibly worse. If he couldn't trust himself physically, if his body was betraying him, what would follow?

The worse than death bit, he thought, would come after( _If there was an after..._ a part of him that was growing larger everyday whispered). When Moriarty's assault had been only physical in nature it had taken John three months to feel like himself again. But after this?

He might be never be able to touch Sherlock again. Might never be able to let Sherlock touch him. The sense of _wrongness_ that clung to him wouldn't leave, he could tell that already. What Moriarty had been doing in regards to conditioning would make crime scenes and doctoring absolute _hell_.

Sherlock would feel responsible and John already felt worthless. They might never be intimate again. Would he be able to look at Sherlock without feeling concrete under his knees, cruel hands yanking in his hair? Would Sherlock be able to look at him without seeing depraved brown eyes smiling at Sherlock as their owner thrust into his mouth?

If his future would be anguished, and his present was beyond hell, was death really such and awful alternative?

Only that was bollocks. All of it. Complete and utter bullshite. John had been through too fucking much to get where he was to give it all up. Yes, being physical with anyone might not be realistic for awhile, if ever, but he and Sherlock were so much _more_ than that. And so what if he couldn't handle blood anymore? Lots of people didn't, albeit for an entirely different reason. And John was far from worthless. He didn't really want to consider how much taxpayer money was being wasted on him at the moment.

John would beat some sense into Sherlock on the responsibility front. He'd meant it at the factory and he'd meant it now. Sherlock was worth it. Sherlock was worth much worse. John was the one who had made a choice - if either of them was responsible, it was him. And _all_ the responsibility lay squarely at the feet of the man currently ejaculating inside of him. A man, who if _anyone_ had anything to say about it, would die slowly and painfully.

John's mouth twitched upwards at that thought.

"What's so funny, pet?" Moriarty asked as he settled beside him.

This was, in John's opinion, the worst part. Not the hours he spent achingly hard after being forced erect, only allowed release when he was bleeding or Moriarty was buried inside him. Not the violations on a schedule he was incapable of following, temporally disoriented as he was. No, it was afterwards - the parody of closeness and intimacy.

Moriarty had been spooned behind him, but now he pushed and pressed on John's shoulder, the doctor rolling onto his back to relieve the pressure on his injured upper back. Moriarty's empty brown eyes stared down at him, surrounded by a flushed face and mussed hair. He brought a hand to John's face, sweeping his thumb through the tear-tracks along John's cheek, brushing away the salt water before licking it off his thumb as was his habit. His hand returned to John's face, fingers stroking along his jaw.

"I was just wondering how long the line to kill you was, and who was in it," John replied, staring up at the pale blue ceiling. Moriarty had made it clear at the start, whenever that had been, that he expected answers to his questions, and he expected them to be honest.

Moriarty chuckled, propping himself up on his elbow before trailing his fingers down. He traced the swilling pattern of scars across John's bare chest. Moriarty lingered at the initials JM carved into the skin just above John's heart, still tender after today's reopening.

"Sherlock is at the front, obviously," Moriarty said, now using his fingernails to create new patterns. "Mycroft is a close second. Then Anastasia - the birth name of that assistant who kept you hidden from me. Then a CIA agent you don't know, the leaders of several prominent countries. Sgt. Donovan is next, followed by DI Lestrade. A collection of professors from my days in academia. It gets boring after that."

John let out a dark, humorless chuckle. Of course he would know. He probably thought of the number of people who wanted to kill him as a measure of success.

Moriarty laughed, a maniacal sound that sent shivers of fear down John's spine. "Exactly!" he exclaimed, beaming down at John with pride, no doubt having deduced the doctor's train of thought. He leaned down and crushed his lips to John's, forcing the doctor's mouth open as was his custom.

John bit down. _Hard_. He tasted blood before Moriarty pulled away.

"Feisty tonight, are we pet?" he asked, voice filled with faux sweetness. "Does Daddy need to play with you some more to tire you out? Or would you prefer a playmate?"

"Don't you fucking dare. I've done everything you've..."

"Then I'd suggest you stop misbehaving and give me a proper kiss. And settle down," he ran a thumb under John's eyes, and the doctor did his best not to flinch. "You're overtired. A good night's sleep and a few days rest will do you good. It makes me feel better about leaving you here alone. Besides," he said, pressing a kiss to John's forehead, "you know how much I like to watch your nightmares before I leave."

John allowed relief to course through him even as he forced himself to return Moriarty's fresh assault on his mouth. He was leaving. Oh God. _Thank God_. It had happened before – some business had come up that needed Moriarty's personal insane touch. Each time he'd left instructions with a minion on John's care. Only one in three meals John was offered was safe – the others would leave him retching for hours. The minion Moriarty assigned to John was always dead within minutes of his return. In spite of all this, the brief time without conditioning, without assault, without exposure to Moriarty's consuming, all-encompassing madness, had kept John sane.

Today had been the closest John had come to breaking. And he knew, given enough time, he would. Everyone had a breaking point – it was only a matter of time, and not very much of it, before Moriarty found his. At that point the madman would probably kill him, just like all the others (Moriarty liked explaining his methods and research as much as Sherlock did his deductions). If he'd ever needed time to regroup and find himself it was now.

Moriarty looked down at him and smiled, running a hand through his hair. "Nonsense, pet. I was concerned about it at the start, but you're changing into something worth keeping. And we're so very close, Johnny," Moriarty pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. "Now, sleep. Unless you want a turn?"

John closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, trying desperately to relax enough to fall asleep despite the hand dragging across his torso and the voice humming a sinister lullaby quietly against the skin of his neck.

John must have dozed off at some point, because when he woke he was finally, blissfully alone. Whatever minion had been assigned to the dead-end job (literally) of baby-sitting and poisoning him was out.

John hobbled over to the single bathroom attached to the windowless suite he had been in since his arrival. John generally avoided the bathroom whenever possible, especially when Moriarty was around. But the dried blood and semen had become too much, and he couldn't resist taking advantage of the opportunity to make himself feel slightly human again.

As John turned after shutting and bolting the door behind him, he remembered why he _loathed_ being here. Directly across from the door was a full length mirror, and it was impossible to avoid the reflection staring back at him.

He looked…he looked like a war zone. He'd lost most of the weight he had managed to gain back after recovering from his infection. His wrists and ankles were covered in bruises, cuts, and welts from the various methods Moriarty had been using to restrain John during his "conditioning." He purposefully kept his eyes away from the small irritated ring of red around the base of his penis, incurred in the same scenario.

John's body was covered in dried blood, some of it old enough to be flaking, and a web of scars; some white, some pale pink, some angry red. He could have been an artist in another life, John found himself musing as he studied the swirls and purple-blue-black-yellow bruises that covered the canvas that was his body. Moriarty was nothing if not ascetically obsessed – it only made sense that he'd be nothing but meticulous when decorating his newest plaything.

John's hair was matted with sweat and other fluids he didn't want to think about. His cheeks were sunken, his mouth was swollen, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Blue eyes that looked frighteningly similar to those in the faces of the soldiers who had stopped caring whether or not they made it home.

John forced his gaze away from the mirror. Today was about fixing that, he reminded himself as he climbed into the shower stall. Today was a chance to get to a place where he could make it through, make it to the next time he had a chance to regroup.

He turned the water as hot as he could stand, taking care to wash away everything he could that covered his body. He scrubbed as hard as he could, until his skin was pink praying that by cleaning his body he would feel a little cleaner as well. But he didn't. He still felt violated. Dirty. Used.

Deep breath. Then another. He could do this. He would do this if it killed him.

 _Sherlock_

Sherlock, swirling around in that ridiculous coat of his. Sherlock sham smiling to get what he needed. Sherlock staring at the ceiling, small smile on his lips as a result of whatever it was John had said. Sherlock stalking towards John in Lestrade's office, giving him a searing kiss. Sherlock's arms wrapped around him, Sherlock inside him, Sherlock beside him – feeling safe and warm and like _home_. The sound of his voice when he came, the way he caressed the word "John" like it was sacred. His shamefaced expression next to Asclepia's earnest one as the puppy stared out of him from the bowl of the toilet. The sight of the Locki dragging the lanky consulting detective behind him, the man who was usually the epitome of grace doing his best not to fall on his face. The expression of fondness on his face, often exasperated, whenever he looked at John. The criminals he caught, the ones he prevented, the smile on his face and color in his cheeks when he had caught the scent.

Worth it. Worth all of it and so much more, to keep him free. To keep him safe. Anything for Sherlock.

There was a sudden, sharp sliding sound and John whipped around, unsure what he would find.

For one hideous second, he was convinced his mind was playing tricks on him. Conjuring for him what he so desperately wanted to see.

Sherlock stared down at him out of grey eyes that were beyond bloodshot and filled with a combination of emotions John didn't have the chance to untangle. The eyes roamed over his body, growing darker and impossibly more irate by the second.

"Sherlock?" John choked out, unwilling to trust his eyes.

The Detective took one long step, then another, putting himself under the spray of the shower. He reached out, slowly, before brushing the back of his hand gently along John's face.

This was real. _He_ was real.

John smiled as wide as he could manage. "Hello again. Fancy meeting you here."

Sherlock let out a small strangle noise, a cross between a laugh and a sob, his body rocking forward to wrap his arms around the doctor. John turned away, whole body tightening as he took an instinctual step backwards. Sherlock froze in place, studying John carefully before pulling back and offering his hand.

"Time to go."


	13. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Long AN on epilogue, I promise. Epilogue will also contain the H/C fluff you're all hoping for. I have no personal experience with recovery from rape, but I have had to work through my own issues, and drew on that. I hope I have treated this topic with the care and respect it deserves.**
> 
>  **Warnings: Discussions of traumatic experiences and rape. People being triggered. Fairly graphic descriptions of a body.**

Tobias Gregson heard about Sherlock Holmes long before he ever saw the man. As Gregory Lestrade's new Sergeant, he heard Holmes' name only slightly less often than Sally Donovan's, the Sergeant whose job he had taken.

He'd been with Lestrade for almost five months when the black car pulled up at the crime scene they had just finished processing. The DI froze, staring at the vehicle with equal parts hope and apprehension. The rear door opened and a well-dressed, dark skinned woman stepped out. She gazed around the crime scene, eyes stopping briefly at Anderson before zeroing in on the Detective Inspector.

"Sally?" Lestrade asked, seemingly unable to believe his eyes.

The deadly-silent crime scene broke into a rush of noise and motion, happy cries of "Sally!", "Sergeant!", and "Donovan!" puncturing the night repeatedly. Lestrade embraced his old Sergeant and the other yard members crowded around, leaving Gregson standing alone.

Donovan's expression was hard, almost angry. She gripped Lestrade's shoulder and whispered urgently in his ear. Gregson watched with concern as the color drained from the Detective Inspectors face, and he staggered slightly as if physically struck.

"Alright everyone! We're done here. The Sergeant and I have some business that needs attending, but she'll be by later to catch up with you all, yeah?" There was disgruntled grumbling, but the expression on Lestrade's face brokered no room for argument.

Lestrade and Donovan vanished in the black car and the rest of the squad meandered off in clusters of three and four. Gregson stayed behind, examining what was left of the crime scene. Gregson had no doubt that whatever Lestrade was doing now was of paramount importance. If he'd learned anything about his boss in the time they'd been working together, it was that Lestrade took his job very seriously. But so did Gregson, and if he couldn't help with whatever the Detective Inspector was up to, then he was going to do his best to solve this crime.  
Tobias spent most of the night pouring over the data they had been able to collect, trying to find something in the victim's history that would make the pieces fit together. He was still awake when the preliminary forensics report landed on his desk in the morning. Gregson called Lestrade to let him know. The DI heaved a heavy sigh.

"I can't deal with this right now. Tobias, can you take lead on this? And give me a ring as things start to develop, alright?"

Over the next week, Gregson's not insignificant respect for Lestrade trebled. Interviewing suspects, dealing with grieving relatives, attempting to coordinate the different personnel and departments who tended to behave worse than his toddler nieces – thankless didn't even begin to cover it.

Gregson had evidence, he had alibis, and all of it was painting a fairly clear picture. He certainly had enough to convict the victim's brother, but something about it didn't sit right. When he still couldn't figure it out after staring at all the evidence for three hours, Tobias admitted he was out of his depth. Lestrade agreed to go over everything, but made it clear that Gregson would have to come to him.

Fifteen minutes later, a cab deposited him in front of a building that, upon his entrance, appeared to be a very high class, very _secure_ private hospital. Gregson was positive the only reason he made it through the front door was because Lestrade was standing at the desk watching for him. Under the wary eyes of several security personnel, he escorted Gregson over to a nearby waiting area.

Sally Donovan was watching them unhappily from a small cluster of chairs. She glared at Lestrade, disapproval obvious in every line of her body.

"He won't like this," she barked sharply at Lestrade, not even sparing a glance in Tobias' direction.

"Tough. I _do_ have a job that needs doing. Besides, you know how paranoid he's been of late."

"You can't possibly say it's unwarranted. And _I_ don't like this either." She finally met Tobias' confused stare. "I don't trust him."

It took the Sergeant a few moments to work out she was talking about a different "him". It took Gregson a few more to work out that he was the male in question.

He wanted to be offended, and he _was_ , but there wasn't as much venom behind it as there would have been in a different situation. Tobias was still very much an outsider in Lestrade's squad, but he'd been able to piece a few things together. The reason he _had_ his position was because Donovan had been relocated for her own protection. From what he'd overheard, so had Holmes. Trust issues were forgivable under the circumstances.

The gun aimed at the back of his head was not.

The slight widening of Lestrade's eyes was the only warning Tobias had before a cold cylinder of metal was shoved against his neck. Gregson froze, barely even breathing.

"Who are you?" a voice filled with violent intent growled behind him. "And what is your business here?"

"…the fuck?" Is this a joke?" Gregson demanded, staring accusingly at Donovan.

There was a sharp metallic snap as the safety on the gun was released. "I can assure you I am perfectly serious," the baritone behind him responded in a low and dangerous voice.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade finally managed to choke out, looking horrified, "get that thing _away_ from my sergeant!"

"Your Sergeant is sitting beside you. I have no idea who I am pointing this 'thing', as you put it, at. Therein lies my problem."

"Tobias Gregson," the man in question forced out. This was the absolute worst position to be in. He couldn't even _fidget_ without his accoster's knowledge.

"And what brings you here, Sgt. Gregson?"

Tobias felt that short and sweet would probably be the best option, given the situation. "Murder," he replied.

Holmes (really, how many Sherlocks could there be?) hissed and pressed the gun harder against his skull.

"He's working a case!" Lestrade shouted as he jumped to his feet, looking absolutely horrified. "Jesus, Sherlock! Calm down!"

A long, slim arm reached over his left shoulder, plucking the case file out of his lap. There was a rustling noise of shuffling papers and shortly the gun was removed from Tobias' skin. The sergeant stood and rounded on his assailant.

The man now standing before him seemed to be constructed from extremes. Hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, sharp cheekbones, dark circles under his eyes, and extreme height all combined to give him a skeletal appearance. Coupled with his raven colored curly hair and his porcelain skin, his appearance was so severe as to seem beyond the realm of living possibility.

His brow furrowed in concentration, the man in the great coat pages quickly through the files, gun not deviating an inch from its position aimed at Gregson's forehead. Within a few seconds, the file was flung back in his direction.

"It was the sister-in-law. You should find the evidence you need in her car."

Gregson stared, mesmerized at the blue-grey eyes that now met his own. It wasn't the color, unusual as it was. It wasn't the gun between them. It was the haunted look that he saw in the families of murder and kidnap victims – what had happened to this man?

"Now leave, before I change my mind about shooting you," Holmes ordered with an imperious twitch of his gun in the direction of the door, eyes like ice following Gregson as the Sergeant made his way back onto the streets of London.

Impossible as it seemed, Gregson's second encounter with the consulting detective was even more unnerving than the first. It occurred some two weeks later, soon after Lestrade had finally returned to work.

Gregson and Lestrade were standing in a public pool beside one of the most gruesome corpses the man had ever seen. Looking at it make the Sergeant feel slightly ill.

The body…he couldn't even call it a body. It was a skeleton covered in the charred remains of flesh. The preliminary forensics report had indicated the victim's heart had still been beating when he had been set on fire.

"Who could…my God, Lestrade," Gregson chocked out.

"I know. We should know more about the situation within the hour. It should be solved within the week. I've called in a consultant."

"Holmes?" Gregson asked incredulously.

"He may be a prat, but he gets the job done. He'll grow on you."

"Like mold!" Anderson shouted as he left, finally finished with the forensics.

Gregson did his best not to scowl at the consulting the detective with murderous intent, but it was difficult _not_ to after the way they had been introduced.

Sherlock stalked over to where the body lay at the side of the pool. He didn't bother with greeting either Lestrade or Gregson, instead pulling on Latex gloves with a sharp *snap*

"The killer knew the victim," he began with only a cursory glance at the body "that much is clear from the level of violence. This was personal – revenge, probably. Great knowledge of the human body. As you can see here and here," Sherlock gestured to marks on the corpse that meant nothing to Tobias, "these injuries were deliberately calculated to inflict as much pain as possible. The killer attempted to be fairly methodical about the entire process, but he lost his temper on occasion, as evidenced here and here," he said, gesturing at two different marks on the body. "Revenge was not the killer's only motivation, however. Many of these injuries were inflicted when the victim was past the point of feeling pain, such as the incineration of the body. In my opinion, he was attempting to send a message."

Sherlock stood abruptly. "In summary, I would say that we are looking for someone the victim wronged. Highly educated an well versed in the best ways of inflicting pain on the human body – university education in with some emphasis on biology with copious personal experience. There was one killer, but two men tortured the victim before his death. The killer is a little over six foot and right handed. Although I can gaurtee right now that there will not be enough evidence to come anywhere close to an implication, let alone a conviction."

Lestrade dragged a hand slowly down his face, looking beyond distressed. "If this bloke is as clever as you say he is, why did we find a body at all?"

Gregson looked at Sherlock with mounting horror. Oh God.

Sherlock paused at the pools exit, turning around so the DS and DI could see him lift up a corner of his lip in a poor imitation of a smile. "Come now, Lestrade. What kind of message would it be if no one received it?"

* * *

Tobias Gregson met John Watson long before he heard of the doctor.

In the beginning, he was just John. That was the way these things worked. You shared everything about yourself – you had to hold something back, even if it was your last name.

Tobias decided to join the group after he had been triggered at a crime scene. It was the first time it had happened in years, and he'd frankly been hoping he had finally moved on. The victim was wearing the same shirt. Tobias thought he had been fairly quiet about it, but it _had_ happened.

Tobias was no longer in an alley surrounded by members of the metropolitan police; he was a University student out with his mates at a bar. A friend of a friend had invited him back to his dorm room to talk about a paper. Tobias had been drunk. Drunk stupid enough to feel untouchable. Until he had been touched. And he couldn't stop it. Everything was spinning and there was a weight on top of him and…

Tobias came violently out of the flashback with a small gasp. He made a feeble excuse to Lestrade about feeling ill before staggering to the flat that was home in the new city.

Tobias literally stumbled across the group when he was trying to find a therapist. The search results on his screen sort of…shifted and suddenly there it was: a number to call about group therapy for sexual abuse. Tobias called the leader, one Dr. Canterbury, before he could change his mind about it.

The group was small. Six people including Dr. Canterbury. One man, three women, the doctor, and now Tobias.

Kate told her story first, explaining about her abusive relationship. Sarah had had a run in with command rape, and Jasmine was dealing with the aftereffects of incest.

John's story, brief as it was and reluctant as he was to share it, was horrifying to Gregson as a police officer and Tobias as a person.

"I got a…I suppose 'stalker' would be the best word for it. He threatened my boyfriend, so I did what he wanted. I spent what I later found out was a little under a month being abused by him, both physically and sexually before I was found," John summarized, his arms crossed firmly over his chest.

"John, would you go into…" Dr. Canterbury began.

"Nope," the doctor said, cutting her off sharply.

"The whole point of…"

"I have no idea what these people are going through. None. All of their situations involved some fundamental violation of trust. My experience was entirely different. Many of the side effects are going to be the same. Great. We can work through all those together. But they can't help me deal with why it happened, and so I won't make them listen to it."

John talked more as the sessions went on. And the more he talked, the more horrified Tobias became. Tobias was just happy whenever he could help with anything. Like today.

"I just…we've never really had a chance to just _be_ in a relationship. We were together for maybe two months before I ran into my stalker the first time. And he blames himself for all of it, and…he's never been with anyone else – emotionally, I mean. How do I know he's not with me out of some misguided sense that he _has_ to be?"

Tobias really couldn't help himself. He threw a cushion at John. "Don't be an idiot. From the sounds of things, he's an utter prat. He'd tell you he wasn't interested in a heart-beat. Not only is does he sound an utter prat, he's an utter prat who'd be lost without you. Don't do him the disservice of doubting his sincerity just because you're off-kilter."

Most people would have left the session and never come back. Most people would have thrown a punch. John laughed ruefully and asked Tobias to come with him for a coffee afterwards.

They spent most of it on small talk. When you spend every afternoon Tuesdays and Thursdays pouring out your deepest, darkest secrets it was nice to hear about what the other did for a living.

It became a sort of ritual between the two to go out for coffee after the sessions. Given everything, it was really only a surprise one of them hadn't been triggered sooner.

It wasn't much. The waitress broke a glass and cut herself in the process of cleaning it up. Tobias shrugged, turning away from what was no longer a spectacle.

All the blood had drained from John's face, and if his expression hadn't been enough, the horrified, self-loathing look in his eyes did it.

"Can you move?" Tobias asked.

John responded with a swift jerk of his head, as close to a nod as he could manage at the moment.

"Can I touch you?"

Another jerk, a shake this time.

"Alright, lets head to the loo, okay? Can you manage that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, alright." John was up and moving faster than Tobias had anticipated.

He followed John, locking the door behind them. What he found was not what he expected.

John was leaning over the sink, arms straight and head bowed, jaw clenched. He was also noticeably hard. Tobias didn't know what to say.

"I hate this. I fucking hate this. It's been almost a month and I still can't let the man I love do any more than hold me without having a fucking panic attack, but I can get hard at the drop of a hat if I see blood."

Tobias didn't say anything. Listening was key here.

"You know what happened?" John said, raising his voice. "You want to know what Denise keeps trying to get me to talk about? To tell the man I love? To tell her? To tell _anyone_? He fucked me. Every day, I think. Every day, for a month. And when he wasn't fucking me, he was cutting me. He like to watch me bleed. And he wanted to make me like watching me bleed too. Said it wasn't fair for him to be the only one enjoying himself. So now, it addition to all of _this_ ," John said, tearing off his shirt and turning to face Tobias, "I get aroused by the sight of blood. And when I get hurt? I get aroused a little by that too. I don't even…I don't think this is ever going to stop. I'm always going to be in that fucking room, on that fucking bed, with him…"

Tobias was speechless. What John was describing with his words was hideous enough. The evidence now on display before his eyes was…there were not words. No words could explain what the JM, literally carved into John's chest, surrounded by swirling, twisting looping patterns that might have been beautiful in any other setting was doing to Tobias. There were no words for the horror he felt.

"Did they get him?" he asked finally.

"Oh, they got him alright," John said, trying not to laugh. "the only reason I can sleep at night is I know that he was cut into little tiny pieces and destroyed. If I knew where his grave was, I would dance on it." John looked at Tobias, eyes a little glassy. "What does that make me, do you think?"

"That makes you human," was Tobias' firm answer. He hadn't lived it, and he found himself wanting to do the same.

He was still angry about it the next day at the crime scene. So angry he almost didn't notice that everyone was almost ridiculously happy for the scene of a murder.

"What has everyone in such a great mood?" he asked Lestrade.

"Sherlock's coming"

"Why would that put _anyone_ in a good mood?"

"Because he's bringing Doctor Watson with him," Lestrade said. At Gregson's confused look, he elaborated. "Doctor Watson is Sherlock's partner. In every sense. He got in a bit of a bad scrape, and he hasn't come with Sherlock to a scene over half a year. Decent bloke. Didn't deserve what happened to him. But no one deserved what happened to him," Lestrade added, voice dark.

"Freaks' here!" the officer at the tape called. Lestrade turned and Gregson followed his gaze.

Standing next to Sherlock Holmes, murder, was John, rape victim.

"Christ," said Gregson, trying to stop the world from tilting. "Jesus Christ."

Tobias didn't focus on the scene. He focused on John and Holmes. The consulting detective was hyper-aware of every move the doctor make, his eyes on John more often than the corpse. And John looked…happy. John looked happier than Tobias had ever seen him.

Holmes finished with a flourish, walking slowly over to John, a wide, manic grin on his face, turning to John. John looked back at him gaze calculating, before taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, and pulling Holmes down into a kiss.

It was short, very, very short. Holmes pulled back and looked down and John, fear clear on his face. Tobias was feeling the same concern – what if John had triggered himself?

John opened his eyes slowly and smiled at Holmes. Holmes broke into a wide grin, letting out a laugh so joyful and relieved it was hard to believe it had come from the same man Gregson had met at the private hospital.

Looking at the two of them, Tobias couldn't help but grin. It would be hard, but he could tell by looking at them – Sherlock and John would get there eventually.


	14. Epilogue

"And what," Sherlock asked, "makes you think you are qualified for this enormous responsibility? There are other older, better qualified, more experienced candidates. Why should I chose _you_?"

The young boy across from the detective paled, clearly afraid after the onslaught. His mother, seated beside him, glared at the detective.

"Listen, we came here to get a puppy. We didn't expect the Spanish Inquisition," she hissed at Sherlock.

"No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!" John shouted from the kitchen.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Monty Python had been nearly tolerable in terms of the cinematic trash John usually inflicted upon him. What had _not_ been tolerable were John's subsequent repetitions of certain lines.

The mother let out a small chuff of amusement tinged with irritation. She stopped when her son (though not her husband's) began to speak.

"I know a puppy will be a big responsibility," he said, voice fairly strong, running his fingers through the fur of the infant dog on his lap, "but I think I'm ready. I'll have to house break her, walk her at least three times a day. When she's a bit bigger, we'll have to get her spayed because pet overpopulation is a real problem," he shot Sherlock a slightly accusatory glare here. "I wanted to get a puppy from the pound, but Mum said I could only get one if she didn't have to pay for it. She'll need to go to the vet once a year at least."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You're very knowledgeable for someone who has never had a pet before."

"I've wanted a puppy since year 5. I read every book I could get my hands on, pet-sat and walked dogs for all my neighbors. I'm ready for this. I know it."

Sherlock glanced down at the clipboard in his lap, ticking off the boxes marked "responsible", "determined", and "prepared". One last question, this one of paramount importance.

"What do you plan on naming the puppy?"

As remarkable as the thirteen-year-old's resume was and as impressive as his references were, if his answer ended in "y" or "ie", Sherlock would be forced to deny him.

"I was thinking about Sibylla, after Maria Sibylla Merian," the candidate, Samuel, according to his forms, replied, "but I'm not making any decisions until I get to know her personality."

Sherlock placed one final check before setting down the clipboard. "Well?" he asked, glancing down at the Doberman at his right knee. "Your thoughts?"

Asclepia walked over to the boy with her puppy in his lap, standing up at her full height with her ears pricked forward. She studied the boy carefully for several long minutes before ambling over and sniffing his proffered hand. She retracted her head before he could attempt to pat it.

Asclepia moved her attentions to the canine on his lap, snuffling at the fur. The puppy let out a small woof of protest, squirming further into the boy's lap. Asclepia turned away, wagging her tail as she retreated to the corner where Locki had herded the remainder of the litter.

"Samuel," Sherlock said at length, "I can think of no other questions, and Asclepia clearly finds you suitable. As such, you are free to depart with Sibylla."

"Good luck," John said, walking out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. "And congratulations. You're only the second person to pass Sherlock's ridiculous battery of tests. The first since they've become old enough to leave their Mum."

"Shannon Winters. Asexual. Experienced pet owner. Large back yard. Willing to put in the time required under the special circumstances," Sherlock rattled off absentmindedly as Samuel and his mother made their retreat, puppy cradled against his chest.

"She sent me a picture the other day. He looks fantastic considering that he was the runt of the litter," John told him, sinking down onto the couch. He glanced at the clock and swore, jumping right up again. "They'll be here any minute, won't they? I have to get dressed."

Sherlock fought his impulse to run after the doctor and forced himself remained seated. John was just headed into the adjacent bedroom. Sherlock would be able to hear him the entire time. This was no different from having him in the kitchen. Except Sherlock could _see_ him in the kitchen...

Asclepia walked passed Sherlock and into the bedroom, ears pricked uneasily forward. Sherlock allowed himself to relax slightly. If there was one thing that had changed about Asclepia's behavior towards John after his return home, it was that the Doberman now refused to be parted from him for any length of time and defended him against even the slightest perceived threat.

Today, Sherlock reminded himself, was not about worrying. Not this kind of worry, anyway. Today was about finishing preparations for tomorrow. And tomorrow was about him and John. Tomorrow was about trying to regain some of what had been lost.

The tread of footsteps on the stairs was unmistakably Gregson's. The DS knocked on the door, waiting a moment before letting himself in. Upon sighting Sherlock in his chair and taking in his tense posture, the Sergeant became concerned.

"He's alright?" Gregson asked, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

"John is perfectly fine, Gregson. I assure you. The issues in this situation are entirely my own," Sherlock bit off, burying his fingers in Locki's fur.

The border collie had herded the remaining seven puppies in his litter over to the Detective's chair when Asclepia had left to keep a closer eye on John. The warmth of Locki's body pressed against his legs and the small yips and whimpers of the small canines at his feet helped to alleviate Sherlock's anxiety to only a small degree. It happened every time John was out of sight – Sherlock was reliving those agonizing months without him, was re-experiencing the excruciating four weeks John had been Moriarty's captive.

 _Never again_ , he promised himself. _I will never be parted from him again._ He didn't care that it was codependent, didn't care if it was unhealthy. He needed John Watson. _Needed_ him. John had become essential to Sherlock's continued survival. This was obvious to everyone.

Everyone save John, apparently.

The shocked expression on his face when Sherlock had requested the honor of joining with John in a Civil Partnership had cracked the detective's already battered and bruised heart. To see John, the epitome of goodness and strength, doubt his own worth despite fortitude he had shown throughout the entire situation...Sherlock clenched his teeth. Moriarty's death had not lasted nearly long enough to atone for any of his unforgivable crimes.

"The body..." Gregson began, snapping Sherlock out of his increasingly violent and irate thoughts.

"What?" Sherlock barked, venting his frustration on the hapless DS.

"The corpse at our first crime scene together. The one at the pool," the Sergeant said, leaving the words _the one you murdered_ unspoken. "It was him, wasn't it?" Gregson forced out, fist clenched.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply.

"Good," was Gregson's equally terse response.

The DS deposited himself on the couch, scooping one of the puppies off the ground and pressing the soft fur against his face, inhaling deeply. Sherlock noticed that it was the same puppy he had held and interacted with on all his previous visits to the flat since the litter had been born.

"Very well," the detective sighed deeply. "You may have him, if you so chose."

Gregson shot him a startled look. "Sorry?"

"The offspring of Locki and Asclepia currently in you lap," Sherlock said shortly, disliking repeating himself. "You may keep him."

"No, I heard you. I just wanted to make sure I understood you. You've been guarding these puppies zealously since the day they were born."

Sherlock did not respond to his accusations. "Would you like the canine or not?"

"Of course," Gregson, cradling the puppy to his chest. "Having them around...it's soothing. Very soothing." He was silent for a while, followed by a soft "ah." He looked at Sherlock. "That's why you don't want to let them go, isn't it? To help him. To help you."

"John should be out shortly," Sherlock said, ignoring the man's entirely correct inference. "He must finish dressing before we depart for our final fittings."

Silence again.

"Are you going to do it?" Gregson asked, keeping his eyes firmly on the furry bundle in his lap.

Sherlock knew exactly what he was referring to. After Sherlock had convinced John that he knew exactly what he was doing in regards to asking to become the ex-army medic's husband, and after John had finally agreed, the doctor had made a request. One he was sure had been thoroughly discussed with other parties beforehand. John wanted a wedding night.

"I have agreed to try," Sherlock responded, running his hands through Locki's fur in an attempt to soothe, though whether he meant to soothe himself or the dog he knew not. "I'm afraid he is reading too much into my reluctance," he confessed, keeping his eyes focused anywhere but on those of the Detective Sergeant. "He thinks of himself as no longer desirable, as 'damaged goods'. I am not hesitant because I no longer want him. Far from it. I will never stop wanting him. I am...I..." Sherlock paused, finding his throat blocked. "I acknowledge he knows his own mental state far better than I do. But...living through it once was hell enough already. I do not want to force him to do so again."

Sherlock stopped speaking as a pair of arms wrapped around him, and a familiar set of lips pressed briefly against his neck.

"You know," John muttered, "a man does like to hear he's still wanted every now and then. To his face, even."

"I didn't want you to feel pressured to rush into something you weren't ready for," Sherlock responded, keeping himself immobile. John was the one who knew where his boundaries were. As such, all physical contact was at his prerogative, as it had been since the day he had backed away from Sherlock the day he finally found him again.

"Well, I'm ready. It may not be easy the first few times, but I _am_ ready. And I know you'll keep me safe. You'll know if something is wrong before I do. I trust you, Sherlock." John kissed his cheek this time, and held him tightly for a brief moment. "Come on now, the car's downstairs. Mycroft's probably getting impatient," he said, releasing Sherlock before walked out the door, Gregson right on his heels.

* * *

Sherlock took a brief moment to wipe his eyes before following.

The ceremony was a small, short affair. Mycroft and Gregson acted as the two witnesses, with Mr. and Mrs. Watson, Harriet, Sally, Lestrade, Dr. Canterbury, and Mrs. Hudson also in attendance. The two parroted the words the registrar asked them to and signed when they were told. All in all, it took less than fifteen minutes. Despite the short, mechanical, easily predicted proceedings, Sherlock's vision was blurry when he and John exchanged simple silver bands, and a tear slid down his face when John pressed their lips together in a chaste kiss.

Mr. and Dr. Watson-Holmes departed directly from the ceremony to the house in the countryside where Sherlock had grown up and where the newly partnered couple planned to spend their week-long honeymoon.

Sherlock held his hand out for John to take or ignore as he so chose at the door to the Holmes homestead. John looked from the hand to Sherlock, a familiar and long missing mischievous smile spreading over his features. Sherlock had just enough warning to have time to drop the two suitcases he held before the doctor placed an arm across his back and at his knees, lifting Sherlock into his arms bridal style.

"This," the detective said, attempting to keep a straight face, "is a patently bad idea."

"You know me," John said, stepping over the threshold before carefully depositing Sherlock back on his own two feet, "full of bad ideas. Always have been," he said, smile turning sour for a short moment before he shook it off. "Christ Sherlock, you're heavier than you look."

The detective simply rolled his eyes before taking the bags from John, who had retrieved them from their position just outside the door. He took the stairs at the entryway in long strides, but waited for his husband at every landing.

When they reached the room they would be staying in, located on the third floor, Sherlock deposited the bags unceremoniously on the floor before seating himself on the edge of the bed.

"I still can believe you wore a bow-tie," John told him as he took the seat beside him on the bed, carefully undoing the silk accessory in question.

"It seemed appropriate for the occasion," Sherlock told him, fighting to reign in his emotional responses. If this was to work, Sherlock had to be in perfect control of himself. Anything less could be disastrous.

"Bow-ties are cool," John remarked, his lips quirked in amusement.

"The type of knot has no bearing on its relative temperature, John. You are being nonsensical," Sherlock informed him, fighting off the staggering combination of desire and fear as John began work on the buttons of his jacket.

He placed on hand gently on top of John's own, staring directly into the blue-green orbs that were the center of his world. "Are you sure?" he asked, voice rough with more emotions than he could untangle.

John met his gaze without wavering, his hands steady and his breathing even. "Yes," he said with conviction so strong Sherlock had no choice but to believe him.

"The second something even begins to feel wrong, tell me," Sherlock begged, keeping his hand where it was. "We can try as many times as you like, but please don't push yourself too far."

"I won't. I'm no more eager to go too far than you are, trust me," John told him, slipping his hand out from under Sherlock's and starting on his buttons again.

When he had Sherlock's chest was bare, John tentatively kissed the detective's shoulder. Sherlock kept his hands at his sides, wanting to touch John, to reassure him, but unable to anticipate what touches would be welcome. John solved the problem, kissing his way down Sherlock's arm, paying slightly more attention to the multitude of small marks at the crook of Sherlock's elbow. He placed a tender kiss on the pad of each finger before taking the hand in both his own and placing it at the back of his neck. This done, he repeated the pattern on the other side.

Sherlock took a deep breath, studying the man before him intently. John's eyes were focused, filled with determination and open affection. Sherlock tentatively stroked his thumb down the side of John's neck, watching intently. John's eyelids fluttered shut, and he let out an uneven exhale. Sherlock removed his hand at once, fearing damage had been done.

John opened his eyes, stepping back out of Sherlock's space. "It was fine," he told Sherlock sincerely. "More than fine. Neck is okay. Just...no hair."

"Of course," Sherlock said, moving farther back on the bed to make room for John to join him.

The doctor ignored him, instead taking a deep, uneven breath before reaching trembling hands to begin undoing his own clothing. Sherlock watched, taking in every inch of skin that was exposed.

He knew, of course. What the scars looked like. He had seen them before. They were ingrained into his memory. The sight of them in any other context would have made him angry, evidence of the unspeakable horrors that had been inflicted upon the man he loved more than he loved anything else. Not today.

Sherlock, moving slowly, cupped John's face in his hands, kissing him tenderly and with all the depth of emotion he could muster. John was here. John was safe. Today, the scars were signs of strength. Proof of exactly how much the good doctor could survive. Proof of what they had both endured in order to reach this moment.

He pressed John gently onto his back on the mattress before he began kissing his way slowly along the lines of each scar.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered between each kiss. "Christ, how I love you. I am yours. Entirely yours. I need you. I love you. I trust you."

That night, every inch of John's skin was covered in gentle kisses, every inch of his skin tenderly caressed, every thought Sherlock experienced spoken in a tender voice. John touched every inch of skin in return, whispered how he loved Sherlock, told him he trusted him, explained how much he loved him. They became reacquainted with each other's bodies, learning what had changed over the course of the long months the had been forced to spend apart.

Later, afterwords, as John rested his head against Sherlock they held each other as tightly as they could, John let out a sigh of contentment.

"Thank you," he whispered, nestling himself closer. "Thank you for that. For letting me take control. For making me feel safe. For loving me, in spite of all this."

"John Hamish Watson-Holmes," Sherlock told him, relishing the feeling of John's skin against his own, the smell of his hair, the general closeness he had been missing for so long, "I could never do anything but love you. I could never be happy without you. Thank _you_. Thank you for deigning to return my affection, unworthy as I am. Thank you for saving my life in more ways than one. Thank you for choosing to trust me, of all people."

The road that had brought them to this point had been long and hard. It would continue to be long and hard. They both knew that. But wrapped together, wedding rings glinting in the setting sun, Sherlock Watson-Holmes couldn't help but think that the worst was behind them. And as dear a price they had paid for this moment, he could never imagine feeling more content, holding everything he ever wanted in his arms.


End file.
